I hold on tight and let myself believe her.
Just for a moment.
Just for now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Happy Birthday
Banks
I wake up on my thirtieth birthday and tell myself it’s just another day.
The alarm goes off at 6:47. And I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, taking inventory.
Thirty years old.
Three decades on this planet. Twenty-two years of hockey. Twelve in the NHL. Six teams, two trades, approximately eight hundred penalty minutes. And not a single person who has ever made a big deal about my birthday.
That’s not self-pity; it’s just a fact. Birthdays require people who care enough to remember, and for most of my life, those people didn’t exist. The foster families had too many kids to keep track of. The group homes didn’t do individual celebrations. By the time I aged out, I’d learned not to expect anything.
It’s easier this way. Expectations lead to disappointment. Disappointment leads to—I shut down that train of thought and drag myself out of bed.
It’s just another day.
Practice is at nine. I arrive at 8:54, which for me is practically early, and head straight for the locker room. Most of the guys are already there, in various stages of getting dressed. The usual chaos—music playing, insults flying, someone complaining about something.
Normal. Good.
I keep my head down and start gearing up.
“Yo, Banks!”
Logan’s voice cuts through the noise. I don’t look up.
“Banks! Hey, Banks!”
I still don’t look up. Maybe he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t.
“Happy birthday, man!” He’s right next to me now, grinning like an idiot. “The big three-oh! How’s it feel to be officially old?”
I turn my head slowly and fix him with the glare I usually reserve for opposing players who’ve taken cheap shots at my teammates.
Logan’s grin falters. “What?”
I don’t say anything. Just keep staring.
“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands. “Not a birthday guy. Got it. Message received.” He backs away. “No birthday. Never happened. What’s a birthday? I don’t even know what that word means.”
He retreats to his own stall, and I go back to lacing my skates.
Crisis averted.
Except now Zayden is looking at me with that expression—the one that says he knows something I don’t want him to know.
“It’syour birthday?” he asks.
