Page 38 of Enemy Games

Yup, there was no need for us to even speak again.

We could be supportive teammates, well, fellow hockey players from afar.

I would move on. No holding on to painful pieces of the past. After all, he didn’t even remember me until I spelled it all out for him. And I never mentioned anything about high school. Nope, that could all stay back in upstate New York where it belonged.

Although, an apology would be nice. He was pretty mean and emotionally scarring.

And he did date four of my friends.

Two at the same time.

That was another unfortunate mess he caused that I was left to clean up.

But that was a long time ago. He was probably different now. Not that I would ever know. Because I was going to stay at a very respectful distance from now on.

I fell into a rhythm over the next week of waking up and sitting on the bench while my team practiced, and running until I was so bored I could cry, while everyone else got to lift weights. Then I went to class, studied, did homework, and pretended to go to bed while actually waiting for Chris to fall asleep so I could sneak away to the arena to work out.

Shaw never showed up again, which was a relief, and after a full week of rest, I put on my skates and gloves before grabbing my stick. This was my first time back out for more than just a few laps. I wanted to see how my wrist held up while practicing my handling.

I wasn’t going to know how I was healing or when I was ready if I didn’t try.

Could I make it worse? Maybe, but I’d be careful. No pushing myself. Just a little test.

I reached the ice and felt the same relief that washed over me each time I took that first gliding step. Being out here was as natural as breathing. This was where I belonged.

After one lap, I went back to the bucket I left on the boards in front of the bench and dumped out a dozen pucks. I picked one and slapped it to the center of the rink, then took up a face-off position. I lowered my stick and waited for any twinge of pain.

Nothing.

This position was fine.

I hit the puck and followed it in the direction of the net.

Keeping the puck with me was easy enough. My wrist wanted to bend, but I managed to maintain control without moving it. It was a bit stiff and unnatural, but not too challenging.

I brought the puck back to the others and lined them up, wanting to practice different shots. Starting with the one I was least nervous about, I backed up and prepared myself before attempting a slap shot. Ignoring where the puck ended up, I took a quick inventory of how I felt.

My wrist was fine.

I blew out a breath and tried three more times before confidently crossing that off my list of worries.

Next, I tried taking the puck forward and twisted, testing my backhand. I waited and a tiny twinge of pain came. Crap. Okay, no more backhands for now.

I went back to the pucks and tried a snapshot. There was a bit of an ache so I didn’t bother attempting a wrist shot.

Why did I have to injure my dominant hand? I could have compensated for my left, but I was at the mercy of the healing process now.

“I can’t believe you.”

A man’s voice came from the tunnel, and I spun to see Shaw standing at the bench with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“What are you doing here?” And what gave him the right to judge me?

“I couldn’t sleep again.” He stepped out onto the ice in running shoes and started collecting the pucks in the bucket he grabbed from the boards.

“I can do that.” Later, when I was done practicing slap shots.

“I’m sure you can, but I doubt you will until it’s too late and you’ve worsened your wrists.”