Page 71 of Pucking Amazing

Jason smirks, taking a swig of his soda. “Just doing my job, bro. But we all played our top games tonight. Helluva team effort.”

I’m struck by the genuine camaraderie flowing between them, the way they prop each other up and share the glory, no hint of jealousy or one-upmanship. It’s a far cry from the toxicity and distrust the team displayed when I first started this job.

Tomas leans in conspiratorially as I perch on the arm of his chair. “I gotta say, Syd, having you around has been huge for me and Jase. Knowing we’ve got someone in our corner, keeping us on track...” He glances at Jason, who nods emphatically. “Means more than you know.”

A swell of warmth blooms in my chest. “I’m so proud of you both. Your strength, your commitment to your sobriety and each other—it’s been inspiring to witness.”

Scanning the rowdy tables, I can’t help but notice one glaring absence: Mikey is nowhere to be seen. His sulky presence is impossible to miss, and a twinge of disappointment needles me. But I shake it off.

I’m here to celebrate with the team, and I won’t let one patient’s progress—or lack thereof—ruin the pride I have for the two who are doing so well.

The dimly lit restaurant pulses with laughter and chatter as I squeeze past the crowd of hulking hockey players to reach the booth where Slade and several other senior members of the team are holding court.

“Hey, look who decided to join the party!” Vincent calls out. He grins and pats the seat beside him. “Have a seat, Doc. We’ve got a smorgasbord of deep-fried delights here for your scientific analysis.”

I laugh and slide into the booth, finding myself sandwiched between a group of imposing athletes.

The table before us is piled high with baskets of every type of fried appetizer imaginable—glistening mozzarella sticks, golden onion rings, crispy chips drizzled with cheese and bacon. The mingled scents of grease and spice and salt make my mouth water.

“As a member of this team’s medical team, I have to advise against consuming this much saturated fat in one sitting,” I deadpan.

Slade chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. “Don’t worry, we’ll work it off at practice tomorrow. Besides, everyone knows post-game food has no calories. It’s science.” He winks at me conspiratorially.

“Is that so?” I arch an eyebrow. “Fascinating theory. I must have missed that class in med school.”

Vincent nudges a basket of jalapeño poppers toward me. “C’mon Doc, live a little! Let’s see that discerning palate of yours in action. Rate these babies on a scale of one to orgasmic.”

I snort inelegantly and pop a fried pepper in my mouth, the cream cheese and spice bursting on my tongue. “Mmm, not bad. I’ll give it a seven—tasty, but not exactly mind-blowing.”

“Tough critic!” Jason whistles. “What about these bad boys?” He waves a fried pickle spear enticingly.

I take a tentative bite and immediately wrinkle my nose. “Ugh, sorry, that’s like, a two for me. I think pickles should remain in their natural, un-battered state.”

The guys hoot with laughter at my reaction.

“See, this is why we need you around!” Slade grins, slinging a companionable arm around my shoulders. “To keep us in line and make those adorable disgusted faces.”

I roll my eyes but can’t fight back a smile. It’s strange—with Paul, I always felt like I had to filter myself, to flatten my personality to avoid setting him off. But here, among this rowdy group of overgrown frat boys, I’m free to let my freak flag fly.

To banter and joke and just be authentically myself.

As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Slade leans in closer, his voice lowering so only I can hear his next words.

“Seriously though, how are you doing with everything? We’re all here for you, you know. If you ever need to talk...”

I stiffen slightly, suddenly exposed. Does he know about the fragile, undefined thing developing between DJ, Tyler and me?

I search Slade’s face, but his expression remains casually friendly, inscrutable.

“I appreciate that,” I say carefully. “You’re all very sweet. I’m...figuring things out.”

Our gazes remain locked for another moment as I try to discern what Slade knows. Then Jason cuts in, brandishing a tray of fried mac and cheese bites, and the spell is broken.

As the night winds down, the restaurant staff starts sweeping the floors and wiping the surrounding tables. The Blizzards linger over the remains of their fried feast, but gradually the group dwindles as players head home for the night.

I steal a glance across the room and catch Tyler’s eye, his gaze smoldering with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. All evening, there’s been a magnetic orbit between Tyler, DJ and me—a pull drawing us together, even as we try to play it cool in front of the team.

Tyler makes his way over, shoulders set with determination. My pulse quickens.

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