Page 162 of With the Assist

A spark of irritation flares to life behind my ribs.

“A sign of what?” I ask.

“That it’s time to be done with hockey.”

The word lands like ice water along my spine.

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, but her expression doesn’t change.

“Mom,” I say, willing myself to stay reasonable. “Things like this happen in hockey.”

“That’s exactly the point. You’ve given everything to this sport. How hurt do you have to get before enough is enough?”

My dad steps in. “You’ve already broken records. It’s been a decade. You have nothing left to prove.”

“That’s not true,” I snap, sharp enough to make my head throb.

Delaney stiffens beside me. “Maybe we should all let Nathan rest. This isn’t the time.”

“I am resting.” I try to push myself up. The movement sends pain screaming through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and keep going, propping myself up against the pillows. “I’m not quitting.”

My mom’s eyes fill with tears. “Nathan, please. You deserve more than some game.”

And there it is. It’s not about the injury at all.

“It’s not just a game to me.” I pause, taking as deep a breath as I can. “Yes, I got hurt, and that sucks, but it happens. I love what I do.”

“That’s exactly what scares us.” My dad waves his hands through the air before letting them drop to his sides. “You talk about all of this as if ending up in the hospital is normal.”

“You don’t get to decide this for me.”

My mom flinches. “We’re not deciding. We’re asking you to think about your life. About what comes next.”

My shoulders feel tight, frustration bleeding into something hotter. I swing my legs slightly, trying to sit up straighter, needing the space and distance.

Delaney puts a hand on my arm. “Slow down.”

“I’m fine,” I say, though my vision blurs in protest. “I need you to hear me. Hockey isn’t just a game I play. It’s who I am.”

They’ve never understood how ingrained hockey is in every fiber of my being. The only one who ever had understood was Wesley. It’s some kind of cruel irony that the person who held no judgment against me for my passion left me for hers.

My mom wipes her eyes. “We want more for you because we love you.”

My dad sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s revisit this later when you’re feeling better.”

There’s nothing to revisit.

“Fine,” I say. “But the answer’s not going to change.”

The argument is still hanging in the air when the door bursts open.

“Nathan.” Wesley’s voice cracks as the door slams behind her.

I jerk my head too fast and regret it instantly, pain flaring along my collarbone and up into my skull.

She’s here. Standing inside the doorway, with her soccer uniform on and her hair braided. Her eyes are wide and a little wild, like she ran the entire way.

For a second, we stare at each other.