The replay, p.17
The Replay, page 17
“She’s important to you. That makes her important to me.”
The simplicity of the statement made my throat tight.
“When we win the Cup,” Carter said, his fingers tracing my jawline, “I’m kissing you right on the logo at center ice.”
I laughed—a free, joyful sound that surprised me. “That’s a lot of pressure. We better win, then.”
“Oh, we’re winning.” His certainty was absolute. “Conference finals, Stanley Cup Finals, all of it. And when we’re holding that trophy, I’m kissing you in front of everyone. No hiding, no shame, no fear. Just us.”
“What if we lose?”
“Then I kiss you anyway, because you’ll be devastated and need comfort.” Carter smiled. “Either way, the kissing is happening. You should prepare yourself.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Yeah?” He pulled me closer, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was slow and thorough and full of promise.
We stayed up too late, tangled together on the couch, talking about everything and nothing. The playoffs, the future, where we’d live in the off-season, whether my mother would actually show up to games.
When we finally made it to bed, Carter pulled me against him, his breathing evening out quickly into sleep.
I stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, marveling at how different my life looked than it had six months ago.
Six months ago, I’d been miserable in Chicago, running from my past, convinced I’d destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.
Now I was in Seattle, playing the best hockey of my career, reconciling with my mother, and sleeping beside the man I’d loved since I was twenty-one.
The universe had forced my hand, and I was grateful for it.
Game 1 of the conference finals was two nights later.
Colorado was a powerhouse—faster than Vegas, more skilled, infinitely more dangerous. They’d swept their first two rounds and came into Seattle with confidence bordering on arrogance.
The building was electric. Playoff hockey in the conference finals, one series away from competing for the Stanley Cup. The crowd was on its feet before puck drop, their noise a physical force.
We matched Colorado’s speed in the first period, trading chances, both goalies making spectacular saves. The game was scoreless at the first intermission, but the intensity was already exhausting.
Second period, eight minutes in, I carried the puck through the neutral zone. Colorado’s defense pinched, trying to force a turnover. I slid a pass to Carter streaking down the wing.
He collected it at full speed, cut to the net, and fired a shot that their goalie barely got a piece of.
The puck deflected high, whistling through the air at dangerous velocity.
It caught Carter in the side of the head, just above the ear, barely missing his temple.
He went down hard, his stick clattering away, his body frighteningly still on the ice.
The ref’s whistle blew immediately. The crowd went silent.
I was moving before conscious thought, skating to where Carter lay motionless, the trainer already racing across the ice.
“Carter!” I dropped to my knees beside him, hands hovering, not sure where to touch without making things worse. “Carter, can you hear me?”
His eyes were closed. Blood trickled from a cut above his ear where the puck had impacted.
The trainer gently pushed me back. “Give me space, Miles. Let me assess.”
Shaw appeared at my shoulder, his captain’s voice steady. “He’s going to be okay. Head injuries bleed a lot. Don’t panic.”
But Carter wasn’t moving. Wasn’t responding to the trainer’s voice, to the gentle taps on his shoulder.
The stretcher came out.
They loaded him carefully, his neck stabilized, his body strapped down.
And I stood there on the ice, watching them wheel the man I loved toward the tunnel, not knowing if he was okay, not knowing anything except that the world had just tilted sideways again.
The game continued. I skated my shifts on autopilot, my entire focus split between playing hockey and waiting for news about Carter.
We lost 3-1. I barely remembered any of it.
Nineteen
Chapter 19
POV: Carter Reeves
The world returned in fragments.
Muffled voices. Fluorescent lights that stabbed through my eyelids. The steady beep of a monitor somewhere to my left. And pain—dull, throbbing pressure behind my eyes that pulsed with every heartbeat.
I tried to open my eyes. The light was immediate agony.
“Carter?” Miles’s voice, rough with exhaustion and fear. “Can you hear me?”
I managed a sound that might have been yes. His hand found mine, gripping tight enough to hurt.
“He’s waking up,” Miles said to someone else. “Get the doctor.”
Footsteps. More voices. I forced my eyes open despite the light, needing to see him.
Miles looked wrecked. Still in his suit from the game, his tie loosened, his hair standing on end from running his hands through it. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept. His hand shook where it held mine.
“Hey,” I managed, my voice a croak. “Did we win?”
He laughed—a broken, desperate sound. “You just got carried off on a stretcher and you’re asking about the score?”
“Hockey player.” The words took effort. “It’s what we do.”
A doctor appeared, shining a light in my eyes that made my skull feel like it was splitting. Questions followed—what day was it, where was I, did I remember what happened. I answered on autopilot, my focus on Miles’s face.
“Grade 2 concussion,” the doctor said finally. “You took a deflected puck to the temporal region. Very lucky it wasn’t worse. We’ll keep you overnight for observation, but you should make a full recovery.”
“How long until I can play?” The question was automatic.
“Minimum two weeks. Possibly longer depending on how your symptoms progress.” The doctor’s tone was firm. “Concussions aren’t something you rush, Mr. Reeves. Your brain needs time to heal.”
Two weeks. The conference finals would be over by then, one way or another.
Miles’s hand tightened around mine, reading my thoughts. “Don’t even think about it. You heal properly or I’ll personally keep you off the ice.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, too tired to argue.
The doctor left with instructions about rest, darkness, no screens. Miles pulled his chair closer to the bed, still holding my hand like I might disappear if he let go.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly. “You went down and didn’t move. They had to bring out the stretcher. I thought…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “You can’t do that to me. You can’t leave.”
“Not leaving.” Each word required focus through the fog. “Just a concussion. I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I know.”
We sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the monitor’s beeping and hushed hospital corridor noise beyond the door.
“What was the final score?” I asked eventually.
“We lost. Three to one.” Miles’s voice was flat. “You getting hurt killed our momentum. We couldn’t recover.”
“That’s not on you.”
“Feels like it is.”
I squeezed his hand with what little strength I had. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“Not without you, I don’t.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m coming back.”
Miles didn’t respond, just held my hand and watched me with haunted eyes while I drifted back into medicated sleep.
They released me the next day with strict instructions: dark room, no screens, no physical activity, complete cognitive rest until symptoms improved.
The team had flown to Colorado for Games 2 and 3. Miles stayed with me in Seattle, refusing to leave despite Coach’s orders, despite my insistence that the team needed him.
“They need you more,” he’d said, and that was that.
We holed up in my condo, blackout curtains drawn, existing in a dim twilight that didn’t make my head feel like it was being crushed in a vice. Miles brought me food I couldn’t eat, water I forced down, medications on schedule.
Mostly, he just stayed close. Working on his laptop in the corner, the screen brightness turned down to minimum. Reading game notes by the light of his phone. Existing in my space like he was afraid I’d disappear if he looked away.
Game 2 was that night. I wasn’t supposed to watch, but I convinced Miles to give me audio-only through his phone, volume barely audible.
The Storm lost again. 4-2. Down 0-2 in the series.
Miles paced the darkened living room after, his jaw tight with frustration. “We’re playing scared. Everyone’s trying to do too much. We need—” He stopped, looking at me. “Sorry. You shouldn’t be thinking about hockey right now.”
“I’m always thinking about hockey.” The headache had dulled to manageable levels, the nausea mostly gone. “Talk to me. What’s happening out there?”
“We’re fractured. You were the glue, and without you, we’re all playing individual games instead of as a unit.” He sat on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle me. “Leo’s trying to fill your role but he’s too young. Shaw’s overcompensating on defense. I’m…” He trailed off.
“You’re what?”
“Trying to be you instead of being me.” The admission came out quiet. “I keep looking for you, expecting you to be there, and when you’re not, I freeze up.”
“You’re the best center in the league, Miles. You don’t need me to make plays.”
“Maybe not. But I want you there anyway.”
I reached for his hand, pulling him down beside me. “You’re going to win Game 3. You’re going to trust your teammates, play your game, and you’re going to bring this series back to Seattle.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know you. And I know this team. You’re better than you think. All of you. You just need to believe it.”
Game 3 was the next night.
My symptoms had improved enough that the team doctor cleared me for audio-only monitoring, as long as I stayed in a dark room and took frequent breaks. Miles had flown to Colorado that morning, reluctant but necessary.
He FaceTimed me before warmups.
The video showed him in the locker room, already in his gear except for his helmet. He looked exhausted, the weight of two losses and my absence visible in every line of his face.
“Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Headache’s mostly gone. How are you?”
“Terrified we’re about to get swept and eliminated.” The honesty was stark. “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
I sat up carefully, needing him to see my face despite the dim lighting. “Listen to me. You’re not alone out there. You have Shaw—use him. Leo’s faster than I am—trust that. Vasquez is standing on his head every night—believe in him. You don’t need to be me. You need to be you.”
“Carter—”
“You’re the best center in the league,” I interrupted. “Not because of your points or your speed or your skill. Because you make everyone around you better. So go out there and do that. Lead them. Trust them. Win this game.”
Miles’s jaw set, determination replacing desperation. “Okay.”
“And Miles? I’ll be watching. Well, listening. And I’ll be proud of you regardless of the outcome.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Now go win a hockey game.”
He smiled—small but real—and disconnected.
I spent the next three hours in the dark, listening to the radio broadcast through earbuds at barely audible volume, my head cushioned by pillows, managing the persistent ache.
The Storm came out flying.
Miles scored forty-three seconds into the game—a beautiful rush where he carried through the neutral zone and went five-hole on a deke that left Colorado’s goalie sprawling. The radio announcer’s voice went ecstatic, and I allowed myself a small smile despite the pain it caused.
They played like a team possessed. Shaw quarterbacked the power play with veteran precision. Leo used his speed to create odd-man rushes. Vasquez made save after impossible save.
And Miles orchestrated all of it. Not trying to do everything himself, but trusting his teammates, making the smart play instead of the flashy one, being the leader he was always meant to be.
Final score: 5-2, Storm. Series now 2-1, Colorado.
Miles called after the media obligations, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and relief.
“We won.”
“I heard. You were incredible.”
“We were incredible. Shaw had three assists. Leo scored twice. Vasquez was unbeatable.”
“See? You didn’t need me.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice softened. “We always need you. But tonight, we figured out how to play without leaning on you completely. That’s different.”
We talked for another few minutes before I had to hang up, the screen time triggering a fresh wave of nausea. But I went to sleep that night feeling hopeful for the first time since the injury.
The Storm lost Game 4 in overtime, evening the series 2-2.
My symptoms continued improving. The headaches were less frequent, the light sensitivity fading. I could tolerate short periods of screen time, could handle normal conversation without my head feeling like it would explode.
The team doctor cleared me for light skating. Then full practice. Then, three days before Game 5, full contact clearance.
“You’re playing,” Coach said when I arrived at the facility for practice. “Game 5, home ice. You’re back on the top line with Hartford.”
The relief was physical. I’d been terrified they’d hold me out longer, that I’d have to watch my team fight for their playoff lives without being able to help.
Miles found me in the locker room after practice, pulling me into the equipment storage room with urgency.
“You’re really cleared?” he asked, his hands on my face, checking my eyes like he could assess my brain health through examination.
“Completely cleared. Passed every test. No lingering symptoms.”
“Thank God.” He kissed me—hard and desperate and filled with the fear he’d been holding for a week. “I missed you. Not just on the ice. Everywhere.”
