Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
CHARLOTTE
I tell myself it’s just exhaustion. Long days, too much caffeine, and not enough real food. I’ve been through worse stretches and held it together just fine.
I set up the treatment tables on autopilot: stocking ice wraps, laying out tape, checking supplies. The routine helps; it’s muscle memory. Vic cracks a half-hearted joke about how I could run this room blindfolded. I manage a smile, but it barely reaches.
Declan passes through the tunnel on his way to the bench area, suit jacket slung over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled and tie loosened. He brushes my elbow as he passes, quick and subtle, like a reflex. It’s nothing anyone else would notice, but for a heartbeat, it steadies me.
Then the noise rushes back. The clang of sticks, the buzz of radios, the low rumble of the crowd building above us. I take a slow breath and refocus on the task in front of me. Tonight’s another must-win, and whatever’s off in me will have to wait.
By the time the puck drops, the arena feels like it’s vibrating. Vegas is loud in a way that gets under your skin—music, chants, every hit magnified by the sound system. The energy is wild, but my focus keeps slipping.
Midway through the first, one of our defensemen takes a bad spill into the boards. Vic and I move in sync, crouching fast to assess him. It’s routine—neck clear, no red flags, no signs of concussion—but for a second, my vision swims.
I blink it off, blaming adrenaline. Or maybe dehydration. I’ve barely touched water all night.
Back in the bench area, I wrap an ice bag, jot a quick note, and push through the dizzy spell tightening behind my eyes. Everything around me feels just a fraction too loud, too bright.
By the second period, my pulse finally steadies, but something still feels off. My stomach’s unsettled, and a strange heaviness settles low in my belly. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion—too many flights, too little sleep, too much coffee—but the thought doesn’t quite stick.
Declan catches my eye at one point. He doesn’t say anything, just gives that quiet, assessing look he always has when he senses something’s wrong. I shake my head, a small reassurance. He goes back to the game, but I know he can tell something’s off.
I tighten the strap on my medical bag and focus on the ice. One period at a time.
When the final horn sounds, the scoreboard burns: Vegas 3, us 1. Another loss. The kind that lands heavy, not from lack of effort but from knowing how close it could’ve been.
The hallway outside the locker room hums with low frustration—sticks clattering, muted curses, the dull thud of gear hitting the floor.
Vic handles the postgame checks inside while I clean up the visiting training room—wiping down tables, packing the last of the ice wraps and tape, making sure everything’s ready to travel in the morning.
My legs ache from standing all evening, but it’s the nausea that won’t go away.
As I wrap up and step into the hallway, Declan passes behind me, brushing a hand along my shoulder as he heads out with McCarthy. For a second, it grounds me. Then the hum of the arena fills the space again.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, it’s close to midnight. The room feels unnaturally quiet after hours of noise. I drop my bag, sink onto the edge of the bed, and press my hands to my face. My stomach rolls again, and for a second I wonder if I’m coming down with something.
God, not now. Not during playoffs.
My vision wavers a little when I stand to grab my charger. “Just exhaustion,” I murmur to the empty room. “Nothing a real night’s sleep won’t fix.”
But when I finally lie down, sleep doesn’t come easy. Something in me still feels off, like my body’s trying to tell me something I’m too tired to hear.
The flight home is mercifully quiet. Most of the players crash the second we hit cruising altitude: hoods up, earbuds in, half-asleep against the windows. I spend the first hour finishing treatment notes, then give up and rest my head against the headrest.
It’s not real sleep, just that in-between kind where time blurs. Every sound feels amplified: the engines, someone shifting two rows back, the low murmur of McCarthy and Vic a few seats over. I can’t shut my brain off long enough to rest.
By the time we land, dawn’s breaking over Colorado. Everyone’s moving slow, bleary and sore. I grab my duffel from the luggage pile, wave goodbye to Vic, and drive home in silence, windows cracked just enough to let the cold air keep me awake.
The second I step inside my duplex, the quiet hits different. The air smells like laundry detergent and faint lavender from the diffuser on the shelf. Familiar. Still.
I drop my bag, lean against the counter, and breathe for what feels like the first time in days. My stomach rolls again, light but insistent, and I mutter to myself, “Travel stomach,” even though I know it’s more than bad plane coffee.
The plan for the day is simple: laundry, sleep, and pretending I’m not bone-deep exhausted. But even after a shower, I still feel wrong—tired in a way that coffee doesn’t touch.
My phone buzzes while I’m folding towels.
Kristy: Welcome home. Still alive?
I laugh as I type back: Barely. I might sleep for a week.
Kristy: This Sunday. Dinner and drinks. No excuses.
Smiling, I type a thumbs-up, then toss my phone on the couch and curl up beside it. The fatigue settles heavier now, pressing behind my ribs. I tell myself it’s just catching up—long trip, no real rest, too many hotel breakfasts.
But as I close my eyes, one thought won’t let go:
If this is just exhaustion, why does it feel like something else?