Page 32

I rip off my mask before I've even hit the tunnel.

I can't breathe. I can't think. Everything is too loud, too close.

The scrape of blades on ice, the murmur of voices, the lights overhead, it all crashes against my senses in overwhelming waves.

I feel the burn of tears threatening and force them back with a clenched jaw and burning throat, swallowing hard against the knot forming there.

Bast catches up with me near the tunnel, his skates come to a stop beside me. "Hey. Hey—" His voice is gentle, concerned, nothing like the gruff exterior he shows everyone else.

"I'm fine," I snap. Too loud. Too fast. The words echo in the concrete corridor.

"Derrick—" He reaches for my arm, his face a complicated mix of worry and something softer.

"I said I'm fine!" I shove past him, trying to will my skates to move faster as I storm toward the locker room door, the sting in my eyes finally breaking free as I slam through the entrance and yank off my gloves with trembling hands.

The heavy door bangs shut behind me, the sound reverberating in the empty room.

I sit on the bench, helmet in my lap, unable to breathe properly. My pulse is racing. My skin is too tight. Sweat drips down my back, cold now against my overheated skin. It's not just the drills. It's not just the mistakes. It's everything.

It's the silence with Bast. The lingering glances.

The maybe-something we are, dancing around each other that feels both too small and too vast. The fact that I'm still living in a house that isn't mine, surrounded by trophies and achievements that aren't mine.

The lingering concussion symptoms that the doctors swear are getting better but still wake me in the middle of the night.

The game I might never get back. The person I was, slipping further away every time I flinch at a shot, every time I hesitate when I used to be fearless.

The tears come before I can stop them. Quiet, but hot, rolling down my cheek unbidden.

I curl forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and press the heel of my hands into my eyes like I can shove the feelings back inside.

The pressure makes stars burst behind my eyelids, but it doesn't stop the wetness from seeping between my fingers.

I just want to be better. I just want to be whole again.

I want to be the player Toronto drafted, the one Seattle traded for.

The one my mom sacrificed everything for me to become.

Right now, all I feel is broken. Shattered into pieces that don't fit together anymore, no matter how hard I try to force them back into place.

The locker room door swings open. I don't look up, but I know it's Willis by the rhythm of his steps, the slight drag of his left foot from the old knee injury that ended his playing days.

"You want to tell me what's going on out there?" His voice is calmer than I expected, but I still can't bring myself to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Coach." I swipe angrily at my face, hating the evidence of weakness. "Just having an off day."

"Bullshit." He spits, taking a seat next to me.

That makes me look up. Willis isn't one to curse often. His weathered face is pinched with concern, not anger.

"I'm handling it," I mutter, even as my hands continue to tremble.

"Are you?" Willis's voice softens. "Because ducking is the opposite of what a goalie is supposed to do, son."

The truth lands like a body check. I've been lying to myself, pretending I'm fine when I'm clearly not. Even this morning, with Mom, I glossed over it all. Bast. . .God, he must think I'm a mess.

"I can't—" My voice breaks, and I swallow hard before trying again. "I can't get past it. Every time a puck comes high, I see it happening again. I feel it."

Willis nods, understanding in his eyes. "After my knee blew out, I couldn't even walk past an ice rink without breaking into a cold sweat. Trauma's a bitch."

I appreciate that he doesn't sugar-coat it. Willis has always been straight with me from the beginning and I appreciate that he doesn't give me a pass.

"Have you been talking to Sloan?" he asks.

"We have a session soon." I sigh, rolling my shoulder where tension has knotted. "She's good, but. . ."

"But talking doesn't make the fear go away when you're on the ice," Willis finishes.

Exactly. The fear lives in my body now, not just my mind. It's instinctual.

"I see potential in you, Shaw. Always have." Willis stands, knees cracking. "But potential doesn't mean shit if you can't face what's holding you back." He heads toward the door, then pauses. "Take fifteen. When you come back out, you're running one-on-ones with Maxwell."

My blood freezes. "Coach?—"

"It's time, Derrick. Face the demon,” he shouts back.

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his words and the hammering of my heart.

Face the demon. In this case, the demon is a six-foot-three forward who fired the shot that derailed my career. The same forward who's been avoiding eye contact with me since I arrived. The man who probably feels as haunted by that moment as I do.

I strip off my gear methodically, timing my breathing to the familiar ritual. By the time I'm ready to head back out, my hands have stopped shaking, but dread sits heavy in my gut.

The rink seems quieter when I return, as if everyone is holding their breath. Maxwell is at center ice, stick in hand, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His eyes meet mine briefly before darting away.

Bast watches from the bench, his expression carefully neutral, but I can read the concern in the set of his shoulders. I want to tell him I'm okay, but the truth is, I have no idea if I am.

Coach Willis skates over as I take position in the net. "Simple drill. Five shots, high corner. You stop them, we move on."

Five shots. Five chances to prove I'm not broken beyond repair. God, I need this.

Maxwell skates forward, pucks lined up at his feet. "You good with this, Shaw?" His voice is low, meant just for me.

I want to say no, I want to run but I think of my mom, of all she sacrificed for me to be here. I think of her health, the weight of her future care and how I will do anything to make sure she wants for nothing. I think of Bast, who believes in me even when I don't believe in myself.

"Let's do it," I manage, dropping into position.

The first shot comes. I track it, moving into its path. It hits my blocker, a clean save, but my heart is thundering so hard I can barely hear the team's encouraging taps of sticks against the boards.

The second shot, a little higher, I flinch but don't duck. The puck glances off my shoulder pad.

Third shot. My glove snaps up, catching it clean. A murmur of approval from the bench.

Fourth shot. This one's harder, faster. I see Maxwell's hesitation before he fires, like he's holding back. It ignites something in me, anger, pride, I'm not sure which.

"Don't baby me," I call out, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Full strength, damn it."

Maxwell's eyes widen, then narrow with determination. He nods once.

The final shot screams toward me, high glove side, exactly where the infamous shot hit me months ago. Time slows. I see every rotation of the puck, feel my muscles coiling, ready to spring.

For a split second, memory overlays reality, the roar of the Stanley Cup crowd, the flash of cameras, the weight of expectation. The fear rises, choking.

This time, I don't duck. I rise to meet it, glove extending, tracking the puck all the way into the leather with a satisfying thwack.

Silence. Then a cheer erupts from the bench. Willis's whistle cuts through the celebration.

"Again," he calls. "Five more."

We repeat the drill. Then again, and again. By the twentieth shot, I'm drenched in sweat, my arm aching, but something has shifted. The fear hasn't disappeared, but it's no longer in control.

When Willis finally calls an end to practice, Maxwell skates over, stick extended for a fist bump.

"You looked good out there," he says, eyes meeting mine directly for the first time.

"Thanks." I tap his stick with mine, a simple gesture that feels monumental. "For not holding back."

A smile ghosts across his face. "I never will again."

As the team files off the ice, Bast lingers, waiting for me. He doesn't say anything, just falls into step beside me as we head to the locker room. His shoulder brushes mine, a silent show of support that warms me more than words could.

It's not a victory. Not yet. It's a step forward and for now, it feels like a win.