Blaze's POV
The ice feels foreign beneath my skates.
Three months of rehabilitation, countless hours of physical therapy, and endless reassurances from doctors that I'm "progressing beautifully"—none of it prepared me for this moment.
My first practice back with the Ottawa Otters, and my body is betraying me in ways I never imagined possible.
I push off from the boards, attempting a simple drill I've executed thousands of times. My legs feel heavy, disconnected from my brain.
The timing that once came as naturally as breathing is gone, replaced by hesitation and uncertainty that makes every movement feel clunky and foreign.
"Looking good out there, Cap!" Marcus calls from across the ice, but there's something forced about his enthusiasm. "Just gotta shake off the rust!"
I manage a weak smile and a thumbs up, but inside, panic is clawing at my chest. This isn't rust. Rust implies something temporary, something that can be polished away with enough effort.
This feels deeper and fundamental. Like something essential has been severed and can't be repaired.
During a water break, Tyler skates over, concern written across his face. "You doing okay, man? You seem a little... off."
"Just getting back into it," I lie, gulping water that tastes like metal. "It's been a while."
"Of course, of course." He nods quickly, too quickly. "Coach always says it takes time to find your sea legs again. Remember when Johnson came back from that shoulder surgery? Took him weeks to feel normal."
I want to tell him this is nothing like Johnson's return. Johnson was tentative, careful, protective of his healing joint. But his body still moved like a hockey player's, his instincts were still sharp, his timing intact. He was just being cautious.
I'm not being cautious. I'm struggling with basics that should be muscle memory.
"You'll get there," Tyler continues, patting my shoulder pad. "We all believe in you."
The words are kind, supportive, everything teammates should say. But they land like stones in my stomach because I can see the worry behind his eyes. The same worry I've been catching glimpses of all practice.
I glance toward the bench where Coach Morrison stands, arms crossed, watching our drills with his usual intensity. But when his gaze lands on me, something shifts in his expression. Something heavy and knowing that makes my chest tighten.
He's seen this before.
The rest of practice passes in a blur of missed passes, sluggish reactions, and increasingly strained encouragement from my teammates. By the time we hit the showers, my jersey is soaked with sweat and my confidence is in tatters.
"Coach," I call as he gathered his clipboard and water bottles. "Can we talk?"
He looks up, and for a split second, I see something that might be pity, cross his features. It's gone so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it.
"Of course. My office?"
The walk down the corridor feels endless. Coach's office is small and cluttered, filled with decades of hockey memorabilia and team photos. I've been in here countless times—for strategy sessions, disciplinary talks, contract discussions.
But this feels different. Final, somehow.
Coach settles behind his desk and studies me with weathered eyes that have seen everything this sport can dish out. "How are you feeling? Honestly."
"Like shit," I admit, slumping into the chair across from him. "Like I've never played hockey before in my life."
He nods slowly. "Your body's been through trauma, Blaze. Significant trauma. Sometimes it takes longer than we expect to bounce back."
"Is that what this is? Just taking longer?"
The silence that follows stretches between us like a chasm. Coach leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, choosing his words carefully.
"I've been coaching for thirty-seven years," he says finally. "Played for twelve before that. I've seen every kind of injury you can imagine."
My heart starts hammering against my ribs.
"Some guys come back stronger than ever. Some come back different but still effective. And some..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Some injuries change things permanently."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Are you saying I'm done?"
"I'm saying I've seen injuries like yours before. The kind that looks fine on paper, that heals according to every medical timeline, but leaves something behind that can't be measured on an X-ray or MRI."
I stare at him, waiting for more, dreading what comes next.
"I had a player fifteen years ago," Coach continues quietly. "Similar injury, similar timeline. Doctors cleared him, said he was good as new. But he never got his speed back. Never got his confidence back. Played two more seasons before he retired."
"You think that's what's happening to me."
"I think," he says carefully, "that you need to be prepared for the possibility that your career might look different going forward. Maybe shorter than you planned."
***
The drive home passes in a haze. I grip the steering wheel like an anchor, Coach's words echoing in my head. Some injuries change things permanently.
Sophie's cooking when I walk through the front door, humming something soft and melodic while she stirs pasta sauce.
The domestic scene hits me unexpectedly hard—warm light spilling from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and herbs, the sound of someone waiting for me to come home.
"Hey, you're back early," she says, turning with a smile that immediately falters when she sees my face. "What's wrong?"
I lean against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted. "Talked to Coach after practice."
She sets down the wooden spoon and gives me her full attention. "And?"
"He thinks my career might be over."
Sophie's face goes through a series of emotions—shock, sympathy, something else I can't quite identify. She crosses to me in three quick steps and cups my face in her hands.
"How do you feel about that?" she asks softly. Not it'll be okay or he doesn't know what he's talking about. Just asking how I feel.
I close my eyes and lean into her touch. "I should be devastated, right? Hockey's been my whole life for fifteen years."
"’Should’ doesn't matter. How do you actually feel?"
That's the question I've been afraid to examine. I search inside myself, expecting to find crushing despair or desperate denial. Instead, I find something unexpected.
"Relieved," I whisper, the admission surprising us both. "God, that sounds insane, but I feel... relieved."
Sophie's thumbs stroke across my cheekbones. "Why do you think that is?"
"Maybe because I've been fighting for so long. Fighting for my career, fighting through pain, fighting to prove myself over and over again. And now maybe the universe is telling me it's okay to stop fighting. To focus on something else."
"Like what?"
I open my eyes and meet her gaze. "Like building a life with someone who actually wants to be in it."
Something flickers across her expression—too quick for me to interpret.
"Sophie," I say, my hands coming up to cover hers. "Move in with me. Permanently."