Chapter 2
Asher
Three Years Ago
Puck on stick, I was making a huge breakaway.
I needed Ryan to hurry the fuck up and give me backup to open up an opportunity for the puck to reach the net.
I had to make a split-second decision—was I going to deke out the goalie, or was I going to pass it to my forward? Actually—where the fuck was he?
Heart racing, I approached the net with sheer speed and determination. The goalie was already in his crouched position. Fuck Ryan. I was on my own, I guessed. I eyed the opposing goaltender as he crouched slightly lower. Peering down, I made a quick assessment—should I go top cheese or five hole?
I could feel the other team gaining on me. I needed to shoot the fucking puck. I wound my arms back, outstretched to slap the puck into the net at the top right corner. My peripheral vision was fading, my heart pounding like hell. Fuck, I needed to hit the puck. I needed to…
* * *
Feeling as if my body were underwater, my eyes began to drift open.
In a haze, I saw my mother standing next to my bed, tearing up as her fingers laced through mine.
She looked at me as she noticed my eyes fluttering open, then turned to get the attention of the nurse by my bedside.
Why was I in the hospital? Did I crash into someone and get a concussion? Did I score?
Overwhelmed, I began to sit up and reached for all the cords and tubes strapped to my body, pulling at them to free myself. My vision was still hazy, my thoughts jumbled. The nursing staff rushed to hold me down and removed my hands from the IV pumping fluids into the top of my hand.
“Stop, baby,” my mother pleaded. I paused and stared at her, trying to find my centre. Why was she so upset? I had suffered concussions before, and she had never reacted like this.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked.
She scoffed, wiping away a tear that had fallen. “You’re sitting in a hospital bed, that’s what’s wrong.”
“I know, but I’ve had concussions before.
All part of the game, you know?” I offered lightly.
My mom was a worrier, sure, but this seemed like an overreaction even for her.
I had played hockey my entire life, and a crash into the boards or a cross-check gone wrong happened more often than not.
My mother looked up at me, dumbfounded, confusion painting her face.
A forced smile flitted across the crook of her lips as she said, “It’s nothing to worry about—we’ll discuss everything later when you’ve had some food in your belly, okay?”
I was confused, thrown off by the way she phrased her response. A piece of the puzzle was missing from my thoughts, and trying to make sense of it all was proving difficult.
My head hurt…but not in the way it did after a concussion. No, this was different. This was confusion laced with dread. The calm before the storm. At least, that was the vibe my mom was giving off.
The doctor walked into the room just as my mother finished wiping her tears. She offered me a half-hearted smile—the kind that told me she had bad news to deliver.
Fuck.
Did this mean I couldn’t play hockey anymore?
I looked between my mother and the doctor, realizing this was it. They were about to tell me.
“Hello, Asher. My name is Dr. Azad. How are you feeling?” she asked gently, her eyes scanning the clipboard in her hand.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a clipped bun, and her eyes seemed kind—like she genuinely hated being the bearer of bad news.
I’d met doctors over the years with terrible bedside manner, but she didn’t seem like one of them.
“I’m feeling okay. Head’s a little confused, I guess,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “Is everything okay with me?”
She made eye contact and smiled softly—the kind of smile that always came before a blow.
“Well, Asher, the good news is that you’re okay now. Your heart was working too hard to keep up with the game. After running some scans, we identified the problem.”
The doctor glanced at my mom, silently asking if now was the time. My mother gave her a slight, subtle nod.
“Asher,” she began carefully, “you’ve been diagnosed with cardiac angiosarcoma. It’s a rare malignant tumour that has developed in the blood vessels—and, unfortunately, it’s taken up space in your heart muscle…”
She kept speaking, but I couldn’t hear her. Her mouth was moving, forming words I knew were meant to devastate me—but none of them were connecting.
My eardrums filled with pressure. Water. Drowning. I couldn’t breathe.
My hand shot up to grab at my chest as panic surged through me. People flooded the room—five, six, seven strangers surrounding my bed, none of them I knew.
Why are they crowding me? Didn’t they know I couldn’t fucking breathe?
I tried to shout, but no sound came out. My throat clenched shut, cutting off my airway.
I tossed my head to the side and caught sight of my mother, her hands covering her face, sobbing hysterically.
Am I dying?
Is that what they’re telling me? I’m about to fucking die?
I couldn’t die. I had signed up for that marathon in a few weeks—before winter hit. I was just starting my hockey season. I was so fucking close to making it big.
Did I even make that goal before I blacked out?
I wanted to have kids. Marry a beautiful wife who would travel the world with me when I made it to the NHL.
I was supposed to go on that bachelor trip for Nate.
Fuck.
Glancing up at the room, I saw everyone standing around, watching me carefully.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?” I asked the doctor, now standing at my side while the rest surrounded me, ready in case I went ballistic again.
“Asher,” she said gently, “you will most likely die from this tumour. There are things we can do to make you more comfortable, to extend your lifespan…but I’m so sorry to have to tell you—yes, you will eventually die.
The tumour is located where we cannot operate, and it’s too far along to remove safely, even if we could. ”
I exhaled a long breath, and a tear slipped down my cheek. Embarrassment washed over me—for reasons I didn’t understand.
“How long?” I asked, eyes down, unable to look at her.
I heard her swallow hard. “That’s unknown at this time. It could be up to five years. It could be a year. It could be as little as a month. We need to run more tests to determine how aggressive it is and what we can do to slow its growth. We’ll know more once the lab results are back.”
Reading the mood of the room, she waved off the extra staff and nodded to my mom, silently handing over the reins.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the doctor said before slipping out of the room.
My mother stepped forward and took my hand. Now that I really looked at her, I saw how stressed she was. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face puffy from crying. But she was holding it in now—for me. Keeping it together so I wouldn’t fall apart.
I wanted to be strong for her. I really did.
But I just couldn’t.
A full, heavy stream of tears fell down my face like a dam finally breaking after holding back too much pressure until the water spilled out with a force, bursting free. But there was nothing freeing about this moment. It was catastrophic.
“M-mom,” I said, my voice cracking, “I don’t wanna die.”
She threw her arms around me and pulled me into the world’s tightest hug. I came undone in a way I’d never allowed myself to before. I was always the happy one, the one who kept himself together. The optimistic brother. Always a shade brighter than realistic.
With her mouth buried in my hair, she whispered, “We’re going to figure this out, Ash. There will never be a time I give up on you, okay? We’re going to fight this.”
Her optimism was unlike any other. But one thing my mom didn’t do was make false promises. She wouldn’t say I wasn’t going to die—she just couldn’t.
She was my mom, but at her core, she was a social worker. And social workers didn’t lie. Not even to their children who just got a terminal diagnosis.
With her small stature, she climbed up next to me on the hospital bed and pulled me into her arms. We lay there for what felt like hours as she held me.
A nurse came in, one who looked like she recognized me. “Hey, Asher, good to see you up. Can I get you something to eat?”
The mention of food snapped me out of the fog. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until then. The nurse noticed me hesitating, probably thinking through what the hospital even had to offer, and encouragingly offered, “You name it, we’ll get it for you. Sky’s the limit.”
My mom squeezed my shoulder. “How about that pad thai you like?”
I smiled, grateful she could think clearly when I couldn’t.
“Yeah…that. If that’s okay?”
The nurse gave my arm a gentle squeeze—an act of empathy.
“Anything you want, it’s yours.”
Her smile was kind, but it carried something underneath—like she knew I could have anything I wanted because I was dying.
And she knew it.
Fuck.
It was hitting me again.
Before I could let the tears return, I turned my head away and stared at the TV in the corner looking for a distraction, something, anything else.
Looking back at my mom, a memory surfaced.
“Did I get the goal?” I asked.
She shifted slightly, puzzled at first, and then her expression softened as she remembered. I had been lining up for that breakaway right before everything went black.
“If I’m being honest…I don’t remember,” she said gently. “Probably, honey.”
I pulled my eyes away, not wanting her to see how much it stung.
I wanted that stupid fucking goal.
She was trying to protect my pride—I could hear it in her voice. But I knew she just didn’t want to say it: that I missed. That I collapsed before I even took the shot.
A fleeting thought struck me.
Maybe I should’ve just died right there on the ice.
Save me the embarrassment.
Just as my mom was getting up from the bedside, the nurse returned, carrying the pad thai. The smell hit me immediately, rich and savoury, and as if on cue, my stomach growled.
“Here is the best pad thai in the city,” she said with a small grin, placing the container on my rolling table and manoeuvring it over my lap.
I shifted upright, and she handed me the remote to raise the back of the bed. I took it gratefully, pressing the button as the motor buzzed to lift me into a more comfortable position.
The scent filled the room, and it was incredible.
Had I ever really noticed that before?
I decided to slow down. To actually savour it. I wasn’t ready to accept my fate, not yet—but I also wasn’t going to take anything for granted anymore.
I stared at the food in front of me for a moment, then picked up the fork.
“Here’s to the first meal…of the last days of my life.”