Page 25

I want to roll my eyes at the formality. It's not unfriendly but it's not particularly warm either. Standard Tor when on the ice, strictly business, reserving judgment until proven otherwise. Fair, but I still feel a protective surge rising in my chest.

"He will," I say, perhaps too quickly. Tor's gaze flickers to me, one eyebrow slightly raised before he nods and moves on.

More greetings follow, Ridley's enthusiastic backslap that has Derrick wincing imperceptibly.

Devan's playful banter and jokes, and other teammates offering varying degrees of welcome.

Through it all, Derrick maintains his composure, though I notice his right hand occasionally flexing at his side, a nervous tell I've come to recognize.

"Shaw!" Coach Lennox's voice booms across the space. "My office, ten minutes. Paperwork."

Derrick straightens. "Yes, Coach."

As Lennox disappears down the hall, I catch sight of the new face, Tobias Groves, our off-season acquisition from Las Vegas, fresh off their worse season ever in the franchise history.

He's leaning against the wall, observing everything with a calculated casualness that doesn't quite mask his intensity.

I don't miss the way he's watching Devan, eyes tracking his every move.

Devan skates past him, lightning fast, not paying him an ounce of attention.

Tobias smirks at the brush off, shaking his head.

When his gaze lands on Derrick, he offers a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"Supposed to be our missing offensive piece," I murmur to Derrick.

"Great winger, wrong team. Las Vegas was at the bottom of the table in their division," Derrick replies, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.

Before I can respond, Jamie Maxwell appears at the edge of our conversation, his expression tight with discomfort. The tension in the air thickens immediately. Maxwell, the player whose slapshot had knocked Derrick unconscious last season, effectively ending his time with Toronto.

"Shaw," Maxwell says, his voice lower than usual. "Got a second?"

Derrick freezes momentarily before nodding. "Sure."

I stay rooted in place, unwilling to leave Derrick alone for this conversation, but Maxwell's eyes flick to me in silent request for privacy. Derrick gives me a small nod of reassurance, and I reluctantly step away, though I remain within earshot, pretending to adjust my gear.

"I wanted to say it again, face to face," Maxwell begins, shifting uncomfortably. "What happened. . .it wasn't intentional. I never meant?—"

"I know," Derrick interrupts, his voice steady. "It's hockey. Shit happens."

Maxwell exhales heavily. "Still. It fucked up your season, your contract. I'm sorry."

Derrick studies him for a moment before extending his hand. "Clean slate here. That's what I'm after."

The tension visibly drains from Maxwell's shoulders as he accepts the handshake. "You got it."

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

The exchange was civil, necessary even, but watching Derrick face the man whose shot had altered the trajectory of his career stirs something fierce within me.

Pride, certainly, but also a renewed anxiety.

How will he react when facing actual shots again? When the speed and intensity ramp up?

An hour later, we're on the ice for the first official drills.

I watch Derrick from my position at the opposite end, cataloging every movement.

He seems steady enough in the basic warm-up exercises, but as Coach Willis begins directing the goaltender-specific drills, I notice the changes, subtle but unmistakable.

Derrick hesitates before pulling his mask down, fingers lingering at the edges a beat too long.

When pucks start flying, he's technically sound but a heartbeat slow on his reactions.

During a board-play drill, he positions himself farther from the action than necessary, creating awkward angles for himself, and each time Willis approaches to offer correction, Derrick's gaze drops to the ice instead of meeting the coach's eyes.

The knot in my stomach tightens. He's afraid, not consciously maybe, not fully, but his body remembers the trauma even if his mind is pushing through.

"Bergeron!" Lennox's shout pulls me from my observations. "Focus on your own fucking crease!"

I snap back to attention, embarrassed at being caught watching Derrick instead of concentrating on my own drills but as practice progresses, I can't stop my attention from drifting.

Every flinch, every hesitation from Derrick feels like a personal failure.

I brought him here. I vouched for him. I pushed for this.

After a particularly rough sequence where Groves and Ridley pepper Derrick with rapid-fire shots, two of which get past him cleanly.

Coach Willis calls a break. Derrick skates to the bench, removing his mask, and I catch a glimpse of his face.

Flushed, yes, but also ashen beneath the exertion, his eyes slightly unfocused.

I'm halfway across the ice before I realize I'm moving.

"Drink," I say, handing him a water bottle when I reach the bench. "You're dehydrated."

He accepts it without argument, which concerns me more than anything else.

"I'm fine," he says after taking several long gulps, but he doesn't look at me directly.

"Shaw!" Willis calls. "Back in net. Let's work on those glove-side reactions."

Derrick replaces his mask, but not before I catch the flicker of apprehension crossing his features. As he skates back into position, his movements are stiffer than before, more mechanical.

"He'll settle in," comes a voice beside me. I turn to find Groves watching Derrick with an unreadable expression.

"What?"

Groves gestures subtly toward Derrick. "First day back after something like that? It's all mental. He's fighting himself more than the puck." He takes a drink from his own water bottle before adding, "Been there."

I want to ask what he means, but Willis is already blowing his whistle, signaling for us to return to our respective drills. As I skate back to my crease, I can't shake the feeling that I've made a terrible mistake.

This isn't just about hockey anymore, it's about Derrick's wellbeing. Watching him struggle through the remainder of practice, determined but clearly battling invisible demons I realize the summer's protective bubble has well and truly burst.

Reality has arrived with the force of a slapshot to the chest and I'm not sure either of us is ready for it.

The locker room empties slowly, players filtering out in twos and threes, conversations fading as the door swings shut behind them.

I take my time removing my gear, eyes constantly scanning for Derrick, who'd disappeared from the ice fifteen minutes before the end of practice.

Coach Willis saw his struggle and let him leave without admonishment.

A knot forms in my throat as I recall the final moments before he'd left. Tobias firing a high shot that Derrick had flinched away from instead of challenging. The puck had sailed over his shoulder, and the look on his face when he'd lifted his mask. . . terror.

I'd seen that expression before, back in the hospital room. Raw fear disguised as frustration.

"Shaw bolted pretty quick," Ridley comments, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "First day nerves, probably."

I grunt noncommittally, not trusting myself to speak without revealing more than I should. Ridley raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it.

"Good session today," Tor says as he approaches, already dressed in street clothes. I am sure he is eager to get home to Alexis and their new baby boy, Kodah. "Tell Shaw not to overthink it. First days back are always shit."

My jaw clenches. They're trying to be supportive but they don't understand. They didn't see what I saw in the hospital, didn't read the medical reports and attend his checkups. They didn't hold him through the nightmares that still occasionally wake him in cold sweats.

"I'll tell him," I manage, shoving my chest protector into my bag with more force than necessary.

Devan lingers by the door, exchanging looks with Tor and Ridley. "Team dinner at seven," he says. "Usual place. You and Derrick should come."

I nod without committing, and they finally leave me alone with my thoughts. The auxiliary locker room, where they've placed Derrick for now, is just down the hall. I finish changing into dry clothes before making my way there, heart hammering against my ribs with every step.

The door is partially open. I pause, listening for movement inside, but there's nothing. Just stillness and the faint hum of the building's ventilation system. I push the door wider and step in.

Derrick sits alone on a bench in the center of the room, still in his hockey pants and under armor, pads piled haphazardly at his feet. His back is to me, shoulders curved inward, head bowed. He doesn't turn when I enter, though he must hear me.

"Hey," I say softly, letting the door close behind me with a gentle click.

He doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge me at all. I circle around to face him, and what I see punches the air from my lungs.

His expression is blank, eyes fixed on some middle distance, unseeing. His hands rest limply in his lap, fingers trembling slightly. Sweat has dried on his forehead, leaving salt lines that trace the contours of his face.

I sit beside him, careful to leave space between us, unsure if touch would be welcome right now. The silence stretches, thick and heavy with all the things we're not saying.

"I thought I could do it." His voice, when it finally comes, is flat and empty. "I really fucking thought I could just come back, like nothing happened."

My chest aches. I want to gather him in my arms, to shield him from this pain, but I know that's not what he needs right now. "It's the first day, Derrick."

"I flinched." The words come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "Every time a puck came at my head, I fucking flinched." His hands curl into fists. "Did you see Groves' face? He knew. They all knew."

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.