Page 93 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
"Better than good," I answered truthfully. "I'm playing the best hockey of my career."
"Because of the knee? Or because you finally have something besides hockey in your life?"
I glanced up, surprised by his insight. "Both, maybe."
Dennis nodded sagely. "Balance, man. That's what the old guys always said was the secret. On the ice, off the ice." He stood, punching my shoulder. "Still can't believe you found it with a woman who names her bacteria cultures, but hey—the universe has a weird fucking sense of humor."
"She's stopping that," I protested. "The naming thing."
"Bullshit. Last week she introduced me to 'Ferdinand' the antibiotic-resistant strain."
I couldn't help laughing. He wasn't wrong. "Let's crush these assholes tonight."
"That's more like it." Dennis grinned. "Stone Callahan is back, ladies and gentlemen."
Coach Martinez entered, his game face already locked in place. "Circle up, gentlemen. Tonight isn't just about two points. It's about identity."
As the team gathered around, I felt a familiar electricity building in my veins. But for once, it wasn't tinged with the desperate fear that had haunted me post-injury—the terror that hockey was all I had, all I was.
Now I knew better. I had Kate waiting at home, her chaotic brilliance a perfect counterpoint to my rigid structures. And maybe, just maybe, we were about to embark on something that would bridge our worlds in ways neither of us had imagined.
"Callahan," Coach snapped, jolting me back to the present. "You with us?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, meeting his gaze with newfound clarity. "One hundred percent."
"Good. Because tonight, we need everything you've got."
I nodded, a smile tugging at my lips. "Trust me, Coach. I've never been more ready."
The arena roared with a deafening intensity that I felt in my bones. Chicago fans were notoriously hostile to visiting teams, a sea of red jerseys and middle fingers that created the perfect pressure cooker. I thrived on it.
"Fucking brutal out there," Dennis panted during a line change, blood trickling from a split lip. "Number 27 is hunting for your head."
I nodded, already scanning the ice, mapping trajectories and defensive gaps. "Let him come. I've got something special for him."
The game moved at breakneck speed—a physical chess match played at thirty miles per hour. By the third period, we were tied 2-2, both teams running on pure adrenaline and desperation. The playoff implications hung heavy in the air, almost a physical presence.
When Coach sent my line out with five minutes remaining, I felt a strange calm settle over me. This was my moment. The universe had aligned perfectly—my body finally working in harmony with my mind, Kate's rehabilitation ideas integrated into my recovery, even the sponsorship opportunity waiting as proof that our worlds could coexist.
I intercepted a sloppy Chicago pass at our blue line, transitioning to offense with practiced efficiency. The crowd's jeers intensified as I crossed center ice, their hatred fueling my focus. I could see the play developing—Dennis cutting toward the net, drawing the defenseman wide, creating the lane I needed.
What I didn't see was number 27 coming from my blind side.
The hit caught me square—a perfectly legal but devastating body check that sent me flying into the boards with a sickening impact. My recently healed knee absorbed the brunt, pain flaring white-hot through my body. I lay on the ice for two thundering heartbeats, the familiar fear rising like bile.
Get up. Get the fuck up.
Kate's voice echoed in my head, clear as if she were beside me:Muscular response to trauma shows temporary inflammation but no structural compromise if the rehabilitation was thorough.
In other words: it hurt like hell, but it was working as designed.
I pushed to my feet, ignoring the referee's concerned approach, and skated to the bench. Coach's eyes narrowed, evaluating.
"Need a shift off?" he asked quietly.
"Just put me back in," I replied through gritted teeth. "I'm finishing this."
Dennis squeezed my shoulder. "You sure? Knee looked like it took a beating."
