4. Brett

Brett

"What are you watching?"

Sammy whips his phone down, before looking over his shoulder and seeing that it's me. I raise an eyebrow at him and he grins, holding it up to me.

"Shit, man, I thought you were Devon, he exhales.

"Highlights from last season?" I ask, shaking my head. " Again ?"

"Dude, they're talking about it like it's going down in the history books. I mean, it is—Devon broke so many records last year. It's insane. Just crazy to think that none of it would have happened if—"

Sammy cuts himself off, eyes going wide, clearly realizing that I'm the reason Devon had his chance at fame last season. I'm happy for him—of course I am. I'm always happy for teammates when they do well. I just wish I'd been on the ice with him. Wish his success didn't have to come off the heels of me failing so terribly, I embarrassed myself and the team.

"Yo," Eddie says, banging into the locker room, making both Sammy and I jump. "Chambers is gonna kill you if he sees you watching that shit."

"The guy is a legend," Sammy says, his voice filled with awe. "I don't get why he doesn't want to ride that high forever."

I think about what Devon said to me yesterday—about him being done carrying the team, how he wants me to step up and take over. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

Last year, the Vipers physical therapists had worked me over, making quick goals for my recovery once the cast came off. They marked it down on the calendar, pushed it back, looked at me, asked if I thought I could be back for the playoffs…for the championship. We could work hard , they assured me. As if what I wanted was to rush my recovery and jeopardize the rest of my career, playing on an injury that never fully healed.

Coach Aldine never made it seem like he wanted me to rush back, but from the way the PT crew was acting, my healing was an ambitious goal to be met. They just wanted me on the ice, and it made me nervous.

Now, when the PT team talks to me about my recovery, I keep it light, taking their suggestions and immediately forgetting them. Fallon is the only person I trust to treat me. The only person I trust to have my best interests at heart. Because, after all, she doesn't have any hidden agenda - her only commitment is to her patients.

"Practice today is going to be brutal," Devon says walking in, his eyes narrow on Sammy when the offending phone is unceremoniously stuffed into a pocket. "Apparently, Grey had a conversation with the general manager last night."

We let out a collective groan. The new general manager flew in this summer and started taking everything over—bossing people around and acting like we haven't just won two back-to-back Stanley Cups without her help.

Anytime Coach Aldine has to have a meeting with her, he runs us extra hard at practice to let off some steam. As we skate out onto the ice and start warming up, my mind returns to Fallon and my appointment this morning.

The moment she walked through the door, I could see that something was wrong. There are a few different ways she wears her hair—sometimes in two little buns on top of her head, sometimes in two braids, and sometimes in a ponytail with little braids running down the side.

But this morning, her hair looked like it was scraped haphazardly into a hair tie. There were bags under her eyes, and her scrubs were wrinkled. They still smelled amazing—like peaches and laundry soap—but it wasn't like her to wear wrinkled clothes. I'd been studying her at our appointments for more than three months, and I'd never seen her looking so out of sorts.

She had also never rescheduled an appointment with me.

Obviously, I'm aware that she's just my PT. But in dozens of appointments, we've gotten to know each other. I know, for example, that she lives with six other people and two animals: a cat named Reginald, and a bearded dragon named Spunky, the former of which is frequently caught trying to eat the latter.

I know that she's wanted to be a physical therapist ever since she was little and met a girl in her class who couldn't walk at the start of the school year but was on her feet by the end of it. She knows that I grew up in Minneapolis, loved the Mall of America, but hated how close we were to Canada.

Fallon also knows that I grew up playing hockey, that it was my favorite thing, and I was obsessed with it. What she doesn't know is that obsession—the working, and working, and working—landed me a spot on the Vipers' starting roster. That is, until I had to go and ruin everything by climbing on that damn waterski.

But she knows that I miss the Midwest, and that I love Snickers, and she knows that I've always wanted to get a dog—a Golden Retriever, specifically.

So, when Fallon came into the appointment looking like that, I thought she might open up to me. And, for a second there, it seemed like she would. I don't know why it was so important to me that she tell me what was wrong, but it felt like I could fix it. Like maybe I could make it better.

Deep down, I think I wanted her to tell me that she'd just broken up with her boyfriend. Despite her knowing that I'm single, after I complained over not having a date to a party—with the slight hopes that she would volunteer—I have no idea about her relationship status. And she's not on social media. Which is probably a good thing.

Ever since I returned to the ice, the Vipers' social media guy has me doing at least one dance a week for different social media promotions. With the whole uproar over Devon and his fiancée—Lola—last year, our team has been getting more attention than ever. My return, coupled with my dancing, seems to be fanning the flames.

Sometimes I read the comments, noting how many of the female fans are particularly interested in what I have to offer.

If Fallon was on social media, there's a chance that she might see me in my uniform, doing a silly dance on the Vipers' official page, and then the dynamic we have going might be ruined.

She might realize who I am and start doing that weird thing people do when they don't treat you like a person, but rather a sports robot—designed to perform and deliver results.

"Alright!" Coach hollers, an edge to his voice, "Lightning drills. Let's go!"

I hold a groan back in my throat and line up with everyone else. This is more of a conditioning drill, but this is what Aldine likes to do when he's pissed off. I skate and I sweat, and I think about how I'm going to get Fallon Stewart to open up to me.