Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
It would be a lie to say Shane never crossed my mind. He did. I had a feeling he always would. But that cold winter night in Boston four years ago had cleansed me of him in a way. I’d been able to look him in the eye and tell him how I felt, and it helped me move forward.
I didn’t follow what happened to him after his injury. I didn’t want to know. Any time I thought of him, I tried my best to unthink. It was a wound I didn’t want to poke, a scab I knew better than to pick at.
But Georgie had become a hockey fan in the last few years, thanks mostly to Nathan and his affiliation with the league through his job. Nathan worked in finance, and his firm specialized in alternative investments — money that moved quietly, through channels most people never saw. Sports were just another asset class to him, another place where numbers could be bent, optimized, and leveraged.
And right now, my little brother was sprawled out on my king bed, hand buried in a bag of chips and a game on the TV as he kept me company while I unpacked.
Part of me wanted to tell him to shoo so I could listen to an audiobook or some music, but he was fifteen now, a sophomore in high school and quickly becoming too cool for his older sister. If he wanted to hang out with me, I was going to take it. I had a feeling those days would come to an end far before I was ready.
I was sorting through a box of Nathan’s, folding his night shirts and pajama pants, when a reporter said a familiar name and made me freeze mid-fold.
“Shane McCabe, assistant coach for the Jacksonville Barracudas, joining us now.”
My heart stuttered so hard I felt it in my teeth.
The camera cut to him, and I stopped breathing.
The last time I had seen him, he had been on crutches outside that restaurant in Boston. He’d been pale, too thin, and hollowed out by pain — both physical and mental. That boy had looked defeated and lost, the kind of broken that made me ache just to witness, even if I was still mad at him.
But the man on my television looked nothing like that.
“Whoa,” Georgie said from the bed, suddenly sitting up. Chips spilled onto the comforter, but he didn’t seem to notice. “No way. I had no idea Shane was still in the league.”
“Me either,” I managed on a breath, the corner of my lips curling as the reporter asked him question after question.
And it wasn’t a lie. I didn’t know what happened to him after his injury. He’d told me he was done playing, but I knew there was no way he’d let hockey go forever. It was in his soul. It was who he was.
So to see him now, still able to be a part of the sport he loved so much…
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Man, look at him,” Georgie said, grinning as he shook his head and popped another chip in his mouth. “Hard to believe I used to ride around on that guy’s shoulders. What a stud.”
I laughed.
It felt like shaking rust off my ribcage.
Shane’s hair was slightly longer now, swept back in a way that looked effortless. A neatly trimmed beard sharpened his jaw. His suit jacket stretched over broad shoulders that spoke of strength rebuilt over time. His cheeks were flushed from the game, and his loosened tie made him look relaxed and confident in a way I’d never seen before.
He looked good.
He looked healthy.
He looked sure of himself.
It felt as though the injury, the depression, and the broken pieces I had seen in Boston had been smoothed over and reforged into someone steady.
It felt as though he had healed, and he had done it without me.
“Is he really an assistant coach now?” Georgie asked, turning to me with wide eyes. “That is insane. He’s like, what… thirty-three?”
“You called me old when I turned thirty,” I teased my younger brother. “Now thirty-three is young?”
“To be an assistant coach in the NHL? Yeah.” Georgie shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. “And you threw your back out like the day after you turned thirty, so…”
I grabbed one of my t-shirts and tied it into a knot before chucking it at my little brother, who laughed and caught it with ease. The brat.
When I looked back to the TV, Shane lifted his chin toward the reporter, and the familiarity of the gesture made something deep inside me twist.
“Coach McCabe, there are rumors swirling that you may already be in consideration for head coaching roles as early as next season,” the reporter said. “Anything you want to comment on?”
Shane smiled, and the sound of his quiet laugh reached directly into a part of me I had tried so hard to seal off.