“You should probably go, young man. Genevieve and I have a lot to discuss. She told you she’ll be leaving shortly on a lengthy world tour, right? It will be constant rehearsals and meetings to prepare before then. It’s probably best you focus on your rehab.” She spits the word like it’s a criminal activity. Like I really am some kind of felon.
I ignore her, focusing instead on Genevieve, searching her, silently pleading with her to give me a reason to stay. Because I want to. Fuck her mom. I’ll stay and fight forever, the entire damn world, if she wants me to. Genevieve’s huge, watery eyes lift to mine, so sad, so broken. She wants to say something. Her lips move several times as if the words are pushing against them, struggling to come out. Say it. I urge her silently. Tell her what you want!
Finally, she speaks. “You said you had to get home to watch the game, right? I’ll call you later, Oliver.”
She could have just punched me in the stomach.
I can’t imagine sitting alone at the house with everything boiling inside me and head to the training center instead. It’s pretty much abandoned, and I make my way to the weight room, throw the game on one of the TVs and jump on the treadmill. Randall’s in net again, even after giving up five goals to New York on Monday, but I’m not surprised given their lack of options at the moment. They called up Mercier from the minors but he’s not ready for this level, and I’m waiting for the announcement that they’ll be signing a veteran free agent now that it’s practically confirmed I won’t be back this season. I drive up the pace of the treadmill.
Sure enough, the game is halfway through the second period and we’re already down by two goals. In just a few minutes of observation it’s clear Randall is shaky, a weakness Philadelphia seems keen to exploit. I can practically see their coach drilling it into them in the locker room between periods. Test him! Test him! They’re being extremely ambitious, taking chances instead of waiting for the perfect play. I grunt in frustration when Carson Ingram snaps a wrist-shot from the boards that sails to the back of the net. Down by three.
I increase the speed past walking until I’m almost jogging. Carlos wouldn’t be happy about my pace or choice of equipment, but the voices in my head are loud tonight. A casual jaunt on the stationary bike isn’t what I need right now. I need to push, to hurt, to pound out a violent rhythm until my lungs burn and my muscles protest in agony. My knee… fuck my knee.
Philadelphia scores again, and I fire a curse, slinging a nearby towel toward the TV. Fucking… I clench my eyes shut against a sudden pressure in my chest. This one comes from a deeper place. Not physical—a bristled memory lodged in my head like a burr. Always there. Always threatening to scurry back at any sign of weakness. Watching Randall loosen up in the crease after another easy goal seems to be all it needs to feed the darkness and trigger the familiar burn. The scene crashes back in vivid detail like it’s happening right here, right now in this empty room. Travis Bailey on a breakout, barreling toward me at full speed that feels eternal in the moment. The crowd dissolving, the ice becoming small and focused on his singular movements. Left, right, left, the puck curving in and around his stick with laser precision. My shutout on the line, my starting spot all but secured after a preseason that surpassed even the high expectations from last year’s playoff heroics. Just me and Travis. Just a small puck and a giant career. My defenseman struggles to backcheck, getting in just as Keegan Manning joins Baily on the rush for a two-on-one. I cheat toward Baily, anticipating a shot. And then…
A pass.
I throw my weight to the right to block the new threat from Manning, just as my defenseman dives late to block it with his body. Goal! And—
Collision.
Time stopping.
Sound fading.
Light bursting and dimming into darkness. White hot nothing followed by searing pain and alarming tingles through my lower leg. Cavernous dread. My entire life, everything I’ve worked for, disintegrating to shadows before my eyes as the pain becomes agony and my brain catches up with my body. Intense leg spasms send me back to the ice when I try to get up as the trainer rushes out, and I know, know, in this moment what happened. That I’m done. That twelve weeks from now I’ll be on a treadmill alone, watching my teammates get slaughtered on a journey without me.
I gasp back to the present, fighting for air as tears burn my eyes. With labored breaths, I scan the gym in alarm, finding myself alone and running from the flashback in the dark. How long was I in that haze? Long enough for my body to get caught off-rhythm.
Lumbering in an uneven gait, I lurch forward to catch my balance, but my knee isn’t as strong as it should be. Weak. Useless. The emergency stop does nothing because I’m already going down. Like the save, it’s too late. Always too late. I land hard, crying out in terror at the fresh burst of pain from my knee.
