Home Again
Chapter eighteen
Jamie
The drive back to Briar Cove is quieter than usual.
Colby keeps one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel while the tires hum across the snow-covered highway. The radio plays softly in the background, neither of us paying much attention to the song.
For a while we simply watch the winter landscape slip past.
Dark pines.
Frozen fields.
The occasional farmhouse with warm yellow lights glowing against the snow.
Finally, Colby glances over. "You looked good tonight."
I smile. "I wasn't the one playing."
"No." He keeps his eyes on the road. "But you were exactly where you belonged."
The words settle somewhere inside me. "I wasn't sure I would."
"I know."
He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. He's known me for too long.
"I'd forgotten how much I missed the room."
"The room missed you too."
I laugh quietly. "Liam certainly didn't act like it."
"He was trying very hard not to hug you."
I turn toward him. "Liam?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"I would've paid good money to see that."
"So would've the rest of the team."
The thought makes both of us laugh. For a few miles, that's enough.
The road curves around the lake, moonlight stretching silver across the frozen surface.
Colby slows as we enter Briar Cove town limits. The familiar streets are nearly empty at this hour. A wreath still hangs from the post office. His wife’s bakery windows glow softly in the distance as she finishes cleaning for the night.
Everything feels...steady. Comfortingly ordinary.
When we pull into my driveway, Colby shifts the truck into park but doesn't reach for the door.
"You okay?"
I follow his gaze toward the cabin. Warm light spills from the front window onto the fresh snow.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
I nod. "I think..." I search for the right words. "...I remembered something tonight."
"What's that?"
I smile to myself. "I'm still part of the team."
Colby studies me for a second before returning the smile. "I could've told you that months ago."
"I probably wouldn't have believed you."
"No." He chuckles. "You probably wouldn't."
I open the truck door and step into the cold night air. The silence wraps around me immediately.
No crowd. No music. No laughter echoing through the locker room. Just the soft crunch of snow beneath my boots.
I grab my overnight bag from the back seat. "Thanks for the ride. Tell Sadie and Jillie I miss them."
"Sure will."
He starts the engine again, then rolls down the window before pulling away. "Oh..."
I look back.
"Coach called after you left."
"What'd he say?"
Colby's grin widens. "He wants you back Tuesday."
I blink. "For therapy?"
"No." A pause. "For practice."
Before I can ask another question, he laughs. "Not on the ice. Just..." He points toward an imaginary bench. "...behind it."
Then he's gone.
His taillights disappear around the bend, leaving me alone beneath a sky scattered with winter stars.
I stand there for another moment, letting the quiet settle around me. When I unlock the cabin door, the familiar scent of home greets me.
I hang my coat on the hook beside the door, set my keys in the bowl on the entry table, then almost without thinking, I carry the coaching headset into the kitchen.
It rests lightly in my hand. A simple piece of equipment. Plastic. Foam. A microphone. Nothing remarkable about it.
Yet tonight it reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten. I’m still useful. I set it carefully on the kitchen counter, not tucked away in a drawer and not tossed onto a chair. It’s right there where I'll see it in the morning.
A slow smile finds its way across my face. For a couple of hours...I hadn't been recovering.
I hadn't been counting degrees of motion. I hadn't been wondering whether I'd ever wear the captain's "C" on the ice again.
I'd simply been the captain.
When I switch on the lamp beside the fireplace, golden light fills the room.
After dinner I settle into my chair beside the fire and reach for the notebook.
It waits on the coffee table exactly where I left it yesterday morning.
The cover is beginning to soften around the edges from being opened so often.
Funny, when Annette first suggested I write things down, I thought it sounded like homework.
She had to practically bribe me into writing in this thing.
Now...I'm not sure how I would've made it through the last few months without it. I settle back into the chair and open to a clean page. The date goes in the upper corner almost automatically. For a long moment I simply look at the paper.
Then I lower the pen.
Today's Win. Remembered I still belong.
Someone I Encouraged. Ethan.
I think about the way his shoulders relaxed after one conversation.
Funny. Leadership isn't always knowing the right answer.
Sometimes it's simply reminding someone that they are more than their last mistake.
Something I’m Grateful For.
I pause. Then simply write:
Annette.
I don’t even realize I’ve written it until I’m staring at the word.
Annette.
I could erase it. Write something safer.
The team. Coach. Progress.
Instead, I leave it there.
Nothing else. Just her name. For the first time since meeting her I allow myself to really think about why that name appeared so quickly.
It's more than the shoulder. More than therapy. More than coffee after appointments.
She believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself again. She never looked disappointed on the bad days. Never made me feel weak for needing help, and never treated me like the injury was the most interesting thing about me.
She simply showed up.
Every time.
I rest the pen across the notebook.
I've always been the one checking on everyone else.
The captain.
The teammate.
The one people count on.
I look back down at the page.
Annette.
I could erase it.
Write something safer.
The team.
Coach.
Progress.
Instead...
I close the notebook for a moment, then open it again. The name is still there, and somehow that feels right. Not because I'm ready to call it love. I'm not. Not even close.
But for the first time in a long time, she's become part of the answer whenever I ask myself what I'm grateful for.
She’s become part of my life somewhere between the injury and getting it back.
***
The cabin grows quieter as the fire settles into glowing embers.
I toss another log onto the flames. It catches slowly, the cedar filling the room with its familiar scent.
My eyes drift toward the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
Tomorrow's date is circled. 10:00 a.m. Rehabilitation.
Annette's handwriting curves neatly beneath the appointment time.
Bring your exercise band.
I laugh quietly.
Trust Annette to write on my calendar to remind me of homework.
The sound surprises me. A few months ago, tomorrow felt like another hurdle. Therapy felt like another reminder of everything I'd lost.
Now it feels like the part of the day I'm looking forward to most.