Page 26

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."

She nods thoughtfully. "Who you were before may not be who you are now. And that's okay. Athletes evolve. You don't have to erase the fear, you just have to find a way to move through it."

She gives me a simple breathing technique, a visualization exercise, and a small notebook to track patterns of my symptoms. Nothing earth-shattering.

She informs me that this will be a weekly appointment but reassures me that everything is going to be okay.

When I leave her office, something in my chest feels a little lighter.

“You’re late,” Willis says, but not harshly.

The rink smells like disinfectant and damp gear.

Coach Willis stands at center ice like a drill sergeant, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable as usual.

Sebastian and the rest of the team have already been here for hours.

So, they'll be leaving the ice soon. I'm almost grateful for the one-on-one practice today.

I don't think I can stomach an audience if things don't go well.

“Had an appointment with Dr. Sloan,” I reply, tugging on my gloves.

“I know.” He walks me toward the net. “We’re starting slow today. Reactions. Glove-side warm-ups. I don’t want you in the butterfly yet. Just lateral tracking.”

No slapshots. No pressure. Just drills.

“Copy that,” I reply.

The pucks come at me one at a time, slow and controlled. I block the first. Then the second. My legs feel stiff, unsure, but not useless. The third puck sails wide and I don’t flinch.

Coach nods. “Better. Again.”

The drills wind down after another hour. I'm soaked through, my under-armor clinging to every contour, sweat pooling in places I'd forgotten existed. My lungs burn with the sweet pain of exertion, but I'm still standing. No flinching. No bailing. Just laser focus.

Coach Willis taps the blade of his stick against my pads, a subtle percussion that's become his signature way of telling me we're done for the day.

"Hit the tunnel. Water. Cool down." His words are clipped, efficient, the same way he diagrams plays as he nods toward the bench.

I follow him off the ice, stripping off my gloves and mask as we go.

We reach the bench, and for once he doesn't pull out his clipboard, that ever-present extension of his arm that usually holds my failures in neat, numbered rows. Instead, he leans on the boards, eyes scanning the empty ice like he's reading something written there that only he can see.

"You did good today, Shaw," he says finally, voice even, without the inflection of surprise that I've grown accustomed to hearing. "Better than yesterday."

"Still flinched a few times," I admit, unable to accept the praise without qualification. Old habits from a lifetime of pushing myself beyond limits.

"So?" he shrugs, the gesture unexpectedly casual from a man who measures success in milliseconds.

"You took a puck to the head hard enough to wipe your memory of the finals.

It's not weakness to react that way, it's instinct.

You're not a robot. You're a goalie who got shot at, and now your brain wants to duck. That's not cowardice. That's survival."

Willis glances at me, brow raised, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You think a soldier who's been shot and injured strolls back into combat without flinching? No. They work through it. They train their instincts again. You're doing that right now."

I blink, surprised by the metaphor, the bluntness of it cutting through my self-recrimination. I stare down at the puck marks on my blocker, tracing the black smudges with my thumb. Each one a battle scar, a story.

"Toronto didn't seem interested in giving me time to retrain anything." The bitterness I try to keep buried seeps into my words.

"No, they didn't," he agrees without hesitation, no corporate sugar-coating. "They saw risk and ran. But that's not how we do things here."

He turns to face me fully, crossing his arms over his chest, the fluorescent lights casting shadows across the weathered map of his face.

"Coach Lennox and I were both looped into your medical reports before you got here.

We knew what we were signing up for. We knew this was going to take time.

We also knew what kind of player you are. What kind of goalie."

I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. "And what if I never get back there? What if I freeze again when it counts?" The question that haunts my dreams, that whispers to me in the dark moments before sleep.

"Then we adjust," he says simply, as though we're discussing a minor equipment change. "We work around it. We keep at it until that fear stops driving the bus. That's what Sloan's here for. That's what I'm here for. That's what your teammates are here for."

He hesitates, thumb rubbing absently at a scar on his knuckle, then continues, " Bergeron practically stormed the front office to get you on this roster.

Bailey and Masters back him, too. So, like it or not, Shaw, you've got a whole team riding with you.

No one expects you to be perfect. We just expect you to keep showing up. "

My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to blink fast to keep the sting behind my eyes from spilling over.

"I will," I say, voice rough with emotion I can't quite name. "I won't waste it."

Willis smirks slightly, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him. "Good. Now get your ass into the cold tub before I make you do suicides tomorrow."

I bark a soft laugh that sounds suspiciously like relief, nod, and head toward the locker room. My legs are heavy, muscles protesting each step, but there's a lightness in me that wasn't there before. For the first time since I stepped back onto the ice, I actually believe I can get there.

One drill. One skate. One day at a time. Like Mom always said on the days when she was struggling with her MS the most: you don't have to climb the whole mountain today, just find the next foothold.

I'm processing everything I've experienced today as I peel myself off the changing room bench, muscles protesting after the intensity of today's session with Willis.

The locker room's mostly cleared out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering scent of athletic tape and sweat.

I take my time grabbing my bag, not entirely sure I'm ready to face Bast yet.

The hallway to the parking lot stretches longer than usual, or maybe it's just my reluctance making it seem that way. Each step feels weighted, my muscles already telegraphing tomorrow's soreness. I spot Bast's sleek black Audi immediately in the player's lot but it's the man who steals my breath.

He's leaning against the passenger door, scrolling through his phone with that focused frown that makes the tiny lines between his eyebrows deepen.

The late afternoon sun catches on his profile, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble.

Even dressed down in gray sweats and a Vipers hoodie that's seen better days, he looks like he stepped off a magazine cover.

My pulse does that stupid little skip it's been doing since that first day of summer camp when I first laid eyes on the actual human version of the man I'd admired from afar for most of my teenage years. Get it together, Shaw. You're a professional, not some starstruck kid anymore.