Chapter 18
Mikey
The timeline was insane.
Eight weeks.
That’s what Lydia had given me. Eight weeks to take a leg that had been snapped in half and turn it into something that could impress an NHL scout.
We were living at her Aunt Sarah’s house in Naperville, a suburb of Chicago. Aunt Sarah was a retired nurse who asked zero questions about why her niece had dragged a massive, broken, brooding hockey player into her guest room. She just made casseroles and left us alone.
The first two weeks were pure torture.
Lydia was a dictator. A tiny, curly-haired tyrant with a clipboard and a stopwatch.
"Again," she’d order, watching me do leg lifts on the living room floor.
"It hurts, Lydia," I’d groan, sweat dripping into my eyes.
"Pain is data," she’d recite. "Is it injury pain or effort pain?"
"It's 'I hate you' pain."
"Good. Hate me. Use the hate to lift the leg. Again."
We fought. We screamed at each other. There were days I wanted to quit. Days I lay on the floor and told her it was pointless, that I was a liability, that she should go back to school.
She never listened. She just added five pounds to the ankle weight.
But slowly... miraculously... the data changed.
The swelling went down. The range of motion came back. The atrophy in my quad started to reverse.
By Week 4, I was walking without crutches.
By Week 6, I was jogging on the treadmill in the basement.
By Week 7, I was at the local rink at 5 AM, skating.
It wasn't pretty at first. My balance was off. I favored the right side. But the ice felt like home. The smell of it cleared the fog in my brain.
And Lydia was there for every second. Standing by the glass, stopwatch in hand, shouting corrections.
"Bend your knees, Holt! Trust the edge!"
Now, it was May 1st.
Judgement Day.
We were at the Fifth Third Arena in Chicago—the Blackhawks' practice facility. Reynolds had agreed to meet us here. He hadn't promised anything. Just a look.
I stood in the tunnel, dressed in my gear. My jersey—a plain black practice jersey—felt heavy.
Lydia stood in front of me. She looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes. She had barely slept, spending her nights researching drills and her days pushing me.
She reached out and adjusted my shoulder pads.
"You're ready," she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking slightly.
"I'm terrified," I admitted.
"Good. Fear is fuel." She looked up at me. "Remember the cabin? Remember the fire?"
"I remember."
"You fought for your dad then. Today, you fight for us. For the house. For the dog."
She kissed me—a quick, fierce press of lips.
"Go be the Problem, Mikey."
I took a deep breath. I nodded.
I stepped onto the ice.
The arena was empty except for Reynolds. He sat in the stands, halfway up, looking small and unimpressed in his suit.
He had a notebook. He didn't wave. He just nodded once. Begin.
I started my warmup. Crossovers. Edges. Sprints.
The leg held. It ached—a dull throb where the titanium plate sat against the bone—but it held.
I ran the drills Lydia had designed. Explosive starts. Tight turns. Puck handling.
I pushed myself harder than I ever had. I skated until my lungs burned, until my vision blurred at the edges. I imagined the $12,000 debt. I imagined the facility. I imagined the look on Mac’s face when he expelled me.
And mostly, I imagined Lydia watching me.
After forty-five minutes, Reynolds stood up. He walked down to the glass.
I skated over, spraying snow as I stopped. I was heaving for air, sweat pouring down my face.
Reynolds looked at me. His expression was unreadable.
"The leg looks good," he admitted.
"It's strong," I panted.
"Your conditioning is surprisingly decent for a guy who's been on the couch for two months."
"I had a good trainer."
Reynolds glanced toward the tunnel where Lydia was standing in the shadows. He sighed.
"Look, Holt. You have talent. I've always said that. And you showed heart coming back from this."
He paused. My heart hammered. Say it. Offer the contract.
"But," Reynolds said.
The word hung in the cold air like a guillotine blade.
"But the baggage is still there. The scandal. The genetics. The liability."
He tapped his pen against the glass.
"I can't offer you a contract, son. The GM won't sign off on it. Too much risk."
The world stopped.
The silence was deafening.
"What?" I whispered.
"I'm sorry," Reynolds said, and he actually sounded like he meant it. "I wanted to give you a shot. But the PR... it's a nightmare. We can't touch you."
He turned to walk away.
"Wait!"
The shout didn't come from me.
It came from the tunnel.
Lydia marched onto the bench. She vaulted over the boards—clumsily in her sneakers, landing on the ice. She almost slipped, flailing her arms, but she regained her balance and marched—slid—toward the glass.
"Lydia, don't," I warned, skating toward her to catch her before she fell.
She ignored me. She walked right up to the glass where Reynolds was standing.
"You're wrong," she said. Her voice rang out in the empty arena.
Reynolds stopped. He turned back, raising an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You're wrong about the liability," she said, pointing a finger at him through the glass. "You think his history makes him weak? You think the trauma makes him unstable?"
She gestured to me.
"Look at him. He broke his leg in half eight weeks ago. Most players would be done. Most players would be sitting on a beach feeling sorry for themselves. He is skating at an elite level because he knows how to endure pain. He knows how to survive."
She took a breath, stepping closer to the glass.
"You want a safe bet? Go draft a kid from a prep school who's never had a bad day in his life. But when the playoffs come? When everyone is tired and hurt and scared? That kid is going to fold."
She grabbed my arm, pulling me next to her.
"Mikey won't fold. He's been living in a war zone since he was fourteen. He knows how to protect. He knows how to fight. And he knows how to come back from the dead."
She looked Reynolds dead in the eye.
"That's not a liability, sir. That's an asset. And if you're too blind to see that, then Detroit doesn't deserve him."
Reynolds stared at her. He looked at me. He looked at the fierce, tiny woman standing on the ice in sneakers, defending the monster.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"You've got a hell of an agent, Holt," Reynolds chuckled.
He opened his notebook again.
"Okay. One more test. A scrimmage. Tomorrow. We have some prospects coming in for a skate. You join them. Full contact. If you can handle the hits... if the leg holds up under pressure... we'll talk."
He closed the notebook.
"Bring your skates, Holt. And bring her. I think I might need someone to yell at the GM."
Reynolds walked away.
I stood there on the ice, stunned.
Lydia was shaking. The adrenaline dump.
"You yelled at an NHL scout," I said, looking down at her.
"I gave him a clinical assessment," she corrected, her voice trembling.
I laughed. A loud, joyous sound that echoed off the rafters.
I picked her up, spinning her around on the ice. She squealed, clinging to my neck.
"You're crazy," I said, kissing her face. "You're absolutely insane."
"I'm a Holt by association," she grinned. "It's contagious."
We stood there, hugging on the ice.
We had a chance. One more chance.
The scrimmage was brutal.
It was a mix of AHL guys and top prospects. Everyone was fighting for a spot. The hits were hard. The pace was frantic.
I took a hit in the first shift. A big defenseman leveled me into the boards.
My leg screamed.
But it held. The titanium plate vibrated, but the bone was solid.
I got up. I hit him back. Harder.
I played like a man possessed. I cleared the crease. I blocked shots. I made a perfect outlet pass that led to a goal.
I wasn't the fastest guy out there. But I was the scariest. I was the Wall.
Lydia watched from the stands, sitting next to Reynolds. I saw them talking. I saw Reynolds nodding.
When the scrimmage ended, I skated to the bench. I was bruised, bleeding from a cut on my chin, and exhausted.
Reynolds met me at the gate.
"Two-way contract," he said. "AHL to start. League minimum. No signing bonus yet. But a performance bonus if you make the big club by Christmas."
It wasn't the millions I had dreamed of. But it was a contract. It was a paycheck. It was a start.
"I'll take it," I said, shaking his hand.
"Welcome to the organization, son."
I looked past him to Lydia. She was beaming, tears streaming down her face.
I limped over to her.
"We did it," I whispered, pulling her into a hug.
"You did it," she said.
"No. We."
We drove back to Aunt Sarah's house in silence. A happy silence.
But as the adrenaline faded, reality started to creep back in.
The contract was great. But it was league minimum. $70,000 a year in the AHL.
The facility cost $16,000 a month.
The math didn't work.
I sat at the kitchen table that night, staring at the calculator on my phone.
$70k wasn't enough. Even after taxes, it wouldn't cover three months of care for my dad.
Lydia walked in. She had showered and changed into pajamas. She saw my face.
"The math?" she guessed.
"The math," I confirmed. "I can't afford him, Lydia. The contract... it's not enough. I'll have to... I don't know. Maybe I can fight on weekends. Or sell plasma."
She sat down opposite me. She slid a piece of paper across the table.
It was a printout. From a website.
The Holt Foundation for Traumatic Brain Injury & Shifter Wellness.
"What is this?" I asked.
"I've been busy while you were napping," she said. "I did some research. Did you know the NHL has a player assistance fund? And did you know there are grants for families affected by Feral Madness?"
She pointed to the paper.
"And... I called Mac."
I stiffened. "You called Mac?"
"Yes. He was... receptive. He misses you, Mikey. He hates what happened. He told me about the Alumni network. He made some calls."
She slid another paper across. An email from the North Ridge Alumni Association.
To: Michael Holt
Re: Emergency Grant Application
Status: Approved.
Amount: $50,000.
I stared at the number.
"Mac did this?"
"He feels guilty," she said. "And he loves you. He said... he said you're the best Enforcer he ever coached. And he wants you to focus on hockey, not money."
Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them away.
"This covers three months," I said. "Maybe four."
"It buys us time," Lydia said. "And by then, you'll be in the NHL. You'll get the call-up bonus. We'll make it work, Mikey. We always do."
I looked at her.
She had fought the scout. She had fought the math. She had fought my own stubbornness.
"Marry me," I blurted out.
She froze. The spoon she was holding (she was eating yogurt) stopped halfway to her mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"Marry me," I repeated. I stood up, ignoring the ache in my leg. I walked around the table and dropped to one knee—my good knee.
I didn't have a ring. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a roll of athletic tape. I tore off a thin strip.
"I have nothing," I said, looking up at her. "I have a league minimum contract, a broken leg, and a genetic curse. I have debt. I have baggage."
I took her hand. I wrapped the tape around her ring finger.
"But I love you. More than hockey. More than breathing. You saved me, Lydia. You walked into the dark and you pulled me out."
"Mikey," she whispered, tears spilling over.
"I want the house," I said. "I want the trees. I want the dog. But none of it matters if I don't have you. Be my wife. Be my partner. Be my handler. I don't care what we call it. Just be mine."
She looked at the tape ring. It was jagged and sticky.
She laughed through her tears.
"You're proposing with athletic tape?"
"Tactile learner," I grinned weakly.
She threw her arms around my neck, tackling me. We fell back onto the kitchen floor in a heap of limbs and laughter.
"Yes," she said, kissing me all over my face. "Yes. Yes. Yes."
"You're sure?" I asked, holding her tight. "No return policy on Holts."
"I don't want a refund," she promised. "I'm keeping you."
We lay on the kitchen floor, tangled together.
The road ahead was still rocky. The AHL was a grind. My dad was still sick. The madness was still a shadow in the distance.
But as I looked at Lydia, wearing her tape ring and smiling like she had won the lottery, I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't alone anymore.
And the Wolf?
The Wolf was finally, blissfully, silent.