Page 45 of For Pucking Ever

I swallow hard. "It's muscle memory. Your body remembering trauma⁠—"

"It's weakness." He cuts me off, finally turning to look at me, eyes burning with humiliation and anger. "It's exactly what Toronto was afraid of. What they cut me loose for." A bitter laugh escapes him. "At this rate, I'll be permanently placed back down on the AHL team before the preseason even starts."

The door opens behind us, and I glance over my shoulder to see Tor peering in, concern etched across his features. Devan and Ridley hover just behind him. I shake my head slightly, waving them off. Tor hesitates, then nods, pulling the door shut again.

We sit in silence for another long moment. I don't try to contradict him or offer empty platitudes. We both know the reality of professional sports—you perform or you're replaced—but we also know it's more complicated than that.

"I'm going to let everyone down." The anger has drained from his voice, leaving only quiet despair. "You, the team. . .myself."

“I'm going to give you the only piece of advice my father ever gave me that was ever worthwhile,” I say. “I was eight and shorter than most of the kids on our team. I was supposed to be the goalie. How could I guard the goal when I was shorter than everyone?”

He glances at me, confusion momentarily replacing the blankness in his eyes.

"I mean, obviously, I had a growth spurt and all was well but at the time, I wanted to give up,” I continue. “My father said that hockey was about adapting. About finding new paths when the old ones are blocked. So, we adjusted my moves to accommodate my height at the time."

His gaze drops to his hands.

"Long story short, we rebuild," I continue, keeping my voice steady. "We take this one drill at a time. You are not broken, Derrick."

"I sure as hell feel broken," he whispers.

I shift closer, reaching out to take one of his hands in mine. His fingers are cold despite the warmth of the room. "No one here is giving up on you. It's been one day." I squeeze his hand gently. "I will carry you, Princesse. I will carry you, until you can walk on your own once more."

The nickname, spoken without thought, drawn from some deep place in my heart, brings his eyes back to mine. There's a flicker there, a tiny spark rekindling in the darkness.

"I hate that you're seeing me like this," he admits quietly.

"I see you," I say simply. "All of you. Not just the parts you want to show."

His fingers tighten around mine, and for a moment, we just breathe together in the quiet of the empty locker room, two people facing a mountain that suddenly seems impossibly high.

We'll climb it. One step at a time.

Together.

EIGHTEEN

DERRICK

I've been poked, prodded, scanned, evaluated, and questioned by more doctors in the past three months than I have in my entire life but this, sitting across from a woman in a cozy office with a view of the practice rink feels. . .different. Uncomfortable in a different way.

“Derrick,” she says gently, folding her hands in her lap, “I’m Dr. Sloan. I work with the Vipers as their sports psychologist. I’m not here to judge or label anything, just to support your transition back onto the ice. Okay?”

I nod, though my throat's too dry to speak.

"It's standard protocol for any player returning from a serious head injury," she adds. Her voice carries the practiced neutrality of someone who's had this conversation before. "Especially one that took you out of game play for weeks and possibly months going forward. The team wants to make sure your body and your mind are both ready."

Right, because that's the part they can't see through all their fancy medical equipment and baseline tests. The hesitation that creeps in like an unwelcome shadow. The noise that sometimes roars in my ears when I'm supposed to be focusing. The moment before a puck launches where my body tenses, not from the practiced instinct I've honed since childhood, but from raw, unfamiliar fear. The kind I never had before that final game.

"You flinched during practice yesterday," she says, not unkindly, not accusing. Just a fact laid bare between us. Her eyes hold mine steady, professional but somehow still gentle. Dr. Sloan has this way of stating observations that don't feel like an attack.

"I did," I admit, my fingers picking at an invisible thread on my jeans. "I didn't mean to." The words taste small and inadequate in my mouth. I didn't mean a lot of things, to get hurt, to disappoint the team, to become the guy who jumps at shadows on the ice.

"You're not broken," she says. "You're responding like someone who experienced trauma. Your reaction doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

I swallow hard, blinking at the motivational quote framed on her shelf. Progress over perfection.

"I want to do my job," I whisper. "I want to prove I can still be who I was before the hit."