Page 168 of With the Assist

Instead of moping, I’m watching game replays on ESPN while we all tear into a second box of pizza like last night’s loss didn’t kick everyone in the teeth.

“Tell me again why you couldn’t play last night?” Wyatt flops into the armchair across from me.

“Because science,” I say. “And bones.”

Liam snorts from the floor. “Selfish. Truly.”

Our game from last night flickers across the TV. The game I should have been playing in. I look away right as we miss a clean chance in the second period, the kind of play I know exactly how to finish. I grit my teeth and flinch at another awful attempt on goal.

Grayson kills the replay and turns to face us, arms crossed, captain mode fully engaged even in sweatpants. “We shouldn’t have lost that fucking game.”

Wyatt takes a swig of his beer. “It was a mess.”

“We had chances,” Liam adds, “but nothing flowed.”

Grayson nods once. “No rhythm.”

I stay quiet because there’s a line between reality and enjoying it too much, and I’m dangerously close to it.

Wyatt nods at me. “Without Wilder on the ice, we didn’t click. The power play stalled, the transitions were slow, and practice this morning wasn’t any better.”

“Even practice?” I ask.

Liam nods. “Yeah. Drills were clunky. Everyone was thinking too hard.”

Grayson exhales through his nose, looking at me. “I might be captain, but you set the pace. When you’re not there, we hesitate.”

The words settle in my chest. A tiny, selfish part of me feels good hearing it. I hate that it does, but I won’t pretend otherwise. It means I matter. It means my absence is loud. It means that even injured and stuck on the bench with my arm strapped to my body, my value to this team is obvious.

That’s important considering my contract is up. As far as I know, they are still planning to resign me, but a little extra evidence of my value to the team doesn’t hurt since I can’t prove it on the ice myself.

I flex my fingers in the sling, testing sensation. “Did Coach say anything?” My mouth closes around another slice of pizza. Wesley has ruined pizza for me, apparently, because I can’t eat it without thinking about her in my shirt, on my couch, eating it with me.

I shake it off.

Grayson studies me for a beat. “He asked how you’re doing.”

“And?”

“And he said the locker room feels it when you’re not there,” he replies. “Didn’t sound like someone planning to cut you loose.”

Relief slides through me. Good.

I knew it, rationally. I knew getting a relatively minor injury after they’d already decided to renew my contract shouldn’t change the plan. But hockey is a brutal business, and nothing is guaranteed until ink hits paper.

Wyatt grabs another slice. “Honestly, if you were worried about your contract, last night probably helped.”

I laugh. “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”

“Yeah, but you’re already thinking it.”

He’s not wrong. A slow smirk crosses my face, drawing curses from all three of them.

Liam nods to the sling. “So, what’s the timeline?”

“Two months minimum,” I say. “More if they’re being cautious.”

Grayson grimaces. “You’re going to lose your mind.”