Page 25

Chapter 24

Zach

I squeeze the fucking stress ball Tommy Harper shoved at me the moment I walked into our session in a slow rhythm, the foam compressing under my fingers before springing back into shape. It’s supposed to help with grip strength, but right now, it's just a tangible reminder of every deficiency I need to fix.

Three months until graduation. Four until Ottawa’s development camp. Every squeeze of this stupid ball feels like a countdown, each rep a reminder of how much ground I still need to cover.

"Loosen your grip." Tommy hovers nearby, tablet in hand, as he studies my form. "You're tensing too much. Focus the effort on your fingers, not your wrist."

I grunt but adjust my hold, even though the movement feels inefficient. Three weeks of this shit, and I still can't execute these basic exercises without overcompensating. My fingers twitch against the foam, the weakness in my left hand more apparent with each repetition .

"Your grip strength is up eight percent from last week." His tone is matter-of-fact, like he’s stating the weather. “Range of motion's improved too.”

“Barely.”

"Progress is progress." He sets the tablet down, crossing his arms. His tattoos peek out from the rolled cuffs of his shirt, the ink stark against his skin. “You’re playing the long game here, not a highlight reel. You want quick fixes then go grab some duct tape.”

I scowl and clutch the ball harder than I should, imagining it’s his throat. “Not looking for a quick fix. Just looking to actually feel like this is working.”

"It is working. You just don't have the patience to see it." He grabs a resistance band from a nearby shelf, the green rubber dangling between his fingers. "Which means doing this right. Now drop the ball. Let's work on extension."

He tosses the band and I catch it with my right hand, the motion automatic and smooth. My left hand twitches in response, slow and clumsy in comparison. As I loop the elastic around my fingers and thumb, my thoughts drift back to last night.

To Merci.

To the way his lips moved against my chest as he drifted off, those three words slipping out in a hazy murmur.

I love you .

He didn’t bring it up this morning. Neither did I. I couldn’t. But it’s been on repeat in my head ever since, looping endlessly, driving me insane. I don't know if he meant it or if he even remembers saying it.

My gut twists as I stretch the band, my fingers pushing against its resistance in slow, deliberate motions. It doesn’t make sense why it matters so much. Why Merci’s words feel significant, like something I can’t afford to misread.

“You’re clenching your jaw again.” Tommy’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Relax.”

I meet his gaze, keeping my expression neutral even as my molars grind together. "I'm fine."

“Bullshit.” He steps closer, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Your whole energy is off. What’s going on?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Right. And I’m the Easter Bunny. Relax your jaw before you give yourself TMJ and we have another issue to worry about.”

"Ottawa wants me at development camp in June."

"That's good news, isn't it?"

The band snaps as my grip slips, the sharp sting against my skin barely registering. "What happens when they realize their draft pick can barely hold a stick some days? "

Tommy hands me another band. "You think you're the first player to work through an injury before camp? Half the guys I treat are racing similar clocks."

"They're not dealing with nerve damage." Or brain damage, but I keep that part to myself.

He gestures for me to continue the exercise. "The Senators drafted you knowing you've had surgeries on your arm. Being upfront about your recovery shows maturity, not weakness."

I grunt, switching to a different grip. My fingers burn with the effort, but I push through it. "They drafted me because I can read plays better than most defensemen. Because I don't hesitate to take hits."

"Because you can't feel them, you mean."

My head snaps up, eyes narrowing. Tommy holds my gaze, unflinching.

"Beckett mentioned you play through injuries you shouldn't. That you don't always register when you're hurt."

"Not relevant." My voice comes out sharper than intended, defensive.

"Like hell it's not." He grabs a small purple dumbbell from the nearby table. "Everything's connected, which is why we need to talk about pain management. Or lack thereof."

"I handle it fine." The lie comes easily, practiced .

"You power through it. There's a difference." He sets the weight in front of me. "Show me your curl form."

I lift the dumbbell, going through the prescribed motions. My left hand trembles faintly as I curl my fingers around it, the muscles straining.

"Your control's improving." Tommy makes a note on his tablet. "More stable than last week."

I switch hands, the difference in strength immediately apparent. "Doesn't feel like it."

"That's because you're focusing on what you can't do instead of what you can." He takes the dumbbell, replacing it with a heavier one. "Five more reps, then we'll work on pronation. You've got a game tonight, right?"

"Against BU." I start the reps, each movement precise despite the increased weight. The new weight strains my grip. "Feels like I'm going to be doing this forever."

“Better than doing nothing. You’re here, putting in the work. That’s what matters.”

I don't respond, focusing instead on maintaining proper form. The burn in my forearm builds with each rep, both irritating and satisfying—a reminder that I'm still capable of something, even if it's just this.

“You know, Beckett tells me you’re one of his most relentless players.”

I grunt, focusing on the exercise. Not sure what’s with all the small talk today .

“I’ve worked with a lot of clients. NHL players. Olympians. Athletes at the top of their game. But they all have one thing in common—they’re one wrong move away from losing everything.”

Fuck.

My grip slips, my gaze flicking to him as I nearly drop the dumbbell. "You said you could fix my hand."

"I can help you recover. But I can't guarantee you'll never get injured again. No one can." He straightens, his expression hardening. "One bad hit tonight, one awkward fall, and everything changes. That's the reality of the sport."

A growl rumbles low in my throat, my breaths coming faster. I can't identify if I'm angry or anxious or both—just that the pressure building inside feels unbearable. "What's your point?"

“I’ve seen what happens when athletes don’t have a backup plan. When a sport isn’t just their passion but their entire identity. My brother included.”

I slam the dumbbell onto the bench. "What do you want me to do? Quit before I even have a chance?"

"No." His tone becomes deeper, more domineering. "I want you to be smarter than that. What's your major? "

“Sports management.”

"Good. That gives you options—coaching, training, working with organizations. Even if you're not on the ice forever, you can still be in the game."

The tension in my body diminishes slightly. His words make logical sense. But logic doesn't drown out the doubt clawing at my mind.

If only he knew about the insular cortex damage, about how every weakness threatens to derail me, he'd understand why hockey is Plan A through Z.

There’s nothing else . . . except Merci.

He makes me want to be more, to understand the things I can't process, to feel the things I can't name. When he whispered those words last night, something shifted inside me—terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

And if I want to be someone worthy of hearing them again—someone capable of maybe saying them back—I need to be more than just a hockey player.

I need to be whole. So, having a backup plan might not be a bad idea.

Even if it feels like admitting defeat.

"The dexterity exercises," I say finally, the words feeling like gravel in my throat. "The ones you mentioned last time. Show them to me again."

"Now we're talking." He grabs a set of therapeutic putty from a nearby shelf. "Let's work on fine motor control. "

I focus on the movements he demonstrates, committing each one to memory. The putty molds between my fingers as I mirror his motions, pushing through the discomfort.

My hand may never be perfect, but maybe it doesn't have to be.

And maybe I don't have to be either.