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Over the last twelve years, I’d had two concussions and this injury.

I’d counted myself lucky given the circumstances.

I could have been like the guys who medically retired after taking a cheap shot into the boards, or got hit in the face with a puck, breaking bone and taking chiclets.

No way in hell I was losing my teeth. My parents spent way too much money keeping my pearly whites straight and perfect.

Occasionally, I even used my retainer just to be on the safe side.

But that wasn’t why I came home.

I was supposed to be taking a few days to unwind and get ready for my first official practice as a coach after seeing the team doctor tomorrow morning.

I already knew the head trainer would have a million questions about the surgery, what my goals were as a new coach, and how long I planned on staying with the Mountaineers .

Truth was, I planned on pushing myself, even if my knee wasn’t ready.

No need to act like a washed-up old man when the thrill was still there and the yearning to be back in the spotlight kept me focused and desperate.

Although, I was sure the desperate part had been a sign to slow down.

I just didn’t heed it.

For now.

“Uh huh,” Mom muttered. “I’ll be the judge of that. She shooed me into the living room where my dad sat, watching one of the NHL games while reading the newspaper on his tablet. “Park your butt and elevate that leg. I’ll get you some hot chocolate.”

I rolled my eyes and hid my laughter. I missed this.

On the couch where she said to sit was a pillow and a blanket.

The temps had taken a decidedly drastic downturn this winter.

NWS Nashville was calling for sub-artic air and maybe snow or ice by the beginning of the week.

Not something I wanted to think about, especially when it came to traveling with the team.

Or walking on ice with an artificial joint in my body.

“How was the drive?” my father asked, not looking up from whatever he was reading.

“The usual,” I replied. “Traffic. People.”

“Talked about you before the game,” he mumbled, lifting his chin to the fifty-inch flat screen. “Boys don’t have a lick of sense between them. You’re going to coach like you played. Turn that whole organization around. Just you wait and see.”

I hoped so.

Realistically, I had to face the truth. Being a coach and being a player were two totally different disciplines.

As much as I might not want to acknowledge it, I had to state the obvious.

In a league where thirty was past a player’s prime, there were only a few guys older than me still killing it on the ice.

There happened to be six players between Giordano and me, before I bowed out, in the age category.

Fleury and Crosby were right there as well.

The fact analysts and podcasters speculated when we’d leave or how we’d leave, always made proving myself on the ice, the top priority.

Now... The focus wasn’t on me.

Or, it shouldn’t have been.

The rookies deserved that spotlight.

“Yeah, well, they’re doing what they get paid to do, make wild guesses,” I said, taking off my shoes before propping my leg up. A groan slipped from me the second I extended my leg, elevating it. The release of pressure and tightness felt good.

Dad cocked a brow, setting aside his tablet. “Bad?”

I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

His gray eyes filled with concern as he stared at me.

Ever since his bout with cancer, making sure mom and I took care of ourselves, had been paramount in his life.

He did everything the doctor told him including using holistic medicine aka vitamins, smoothies, and the occasional realignment of his chakra and acupuncture along with his chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and radiation.

Now, if mom had the slightest cold, Dad made her the herbal tea his doctor used.

“I’m sure Dr. Long could fit you in for some acupuncture.

Couldn’t hurt to try a different avenue of therapy.

” He had a point. I’d done everything else, including sitting in a whirlpool for thirty minutes five times a week and aquatic therapy three times a week to help build up the resistance in the joint.

“I’m home now,” I said, watching the game. “Why not. Give him a call.” The worst that could happen was I’d still be in the same position I’d been in since I left Nashville.

In annoying pain.

Which could last for months, according to Dr. Jay.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” my mom said, placing the steaming mug of hot chocolate with giant marshmallows floating on the surface, in my hand.

Damn it, she knew just how to hit me in the feels.

She placed three pain relievers in my empty palm as well then patted my shoulder.

“Takes down the swelling. Bet you need it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I murmured, before shot-gunning the meds with the hot chocolate.

Warmth spread from my mouth to my stomach as the sugar and chocolate snapped across my taste buds.

In an instant I was eight again. Only instead of consoling me after a loss, my mom was helping me after knee surgery and becoming a minor league coach.

“That’s what mothers are for,” she said, her features beaming with pride. “We know all the tricks in the book.”

Yeah, she did.

She went back to whatever she’d been doing before I arrived while dad and I watched the game.

Sir Duke Ellington, my parent’s Golden Retriever, laid curled up in front of the gas fireplace snoring away like he had a rough job.

The Thunderbirds were up by two in the second period.

Howie had taken my spot on the right, next to Krüger, our goalie, and Riser took the left side.

All three were sure footed and blended well together on the ice.

I could admit I was somewhat jealous.

Also wished I was out on the ice, rather than sitting on my ass.