Chapter Two
PLAYING THROUGH THE PAIN
Zayden
My shoulder is on fire.
I knew it would be—the assessment wasn’t gentle, and the new therapist has hands like she’s trying to find every single thing I’ve been hiding.
Which, apparently, she did. Six to eight weeks.
The number keeps rattling around in my head as I pull out of the training facility parking lot and merge into Manhattan traffic.
Six to eight weeks I don’t have.
The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the freezing rain—not quite snow, not quite sleet, just that miserable hybrid that coats everything in a thin layer of ice.
I crank the heat. January in New York is brutal, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes old injuries ache. My shoulder throbs in agreement.
I flip on sports radio out of habit. They’re talking about the Rangers’ defensive line, which means they’ll get to us eventually. I switch it off before they can. The last thing I need is to hear some analyst break down everything wrong with my game while I’m stuck in traffic on 47th.
I can’t fix what you won’t admit is broken.
Victoria Wells, but she goes by Tori, which she’d told me after calling me “Mr. Bishop” the entire session like she was making a point.
Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Eyes that missed nothing.
The kind of face that probably stops most guys in their tracks, all high cheekbones and full lips and zero interest in being looked at.
She didn’t offer much of anything except sharp observations and zero tolerance for my bullshit.
I’m not used to that.
Most people look at me and see the jersey. The multi-million dollar contract. The headlines from three years ago that I’m still trying to outrun. They either want something from me or they’re afraid of me.
She didn’t seem like either.
She looked at me like I was a problem to solve. A body to fix. And when I lied about the pain—four, what a joke—she called me on it without blinking. Didn’t back down when I tried to stare her into submission, which works on literally everyone else.
And then... tacos.
I don’t know why I did that. Small talk isn’t my thing. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of saying nothing, giving nothing, keeping everyone at arm’s length so they can’t disappoint me or leave me, or decide I’m not worth the effort.
But she was standing there with her tablet, all business, and something made me want to see if I could crack that professional mask. Just a little.
I still can’t believe she said Rosario’s, like that tourist trap is actual food.
And she smiled. Fought it the whole time, but I caught it—just a flash, just for a second—and it changed her whole face. Made her look less like a physical therapist who was about to ruin my season and more like... I don’t know. Someone I’d want to talk to.
Which is dangerous.
I don’t have time for dangerous. I have a season to salvage, a shoulder that’s falling apart, and a six-year-old who needs me to keep my life together.
Speaking of which.
I check the clock on the dash. 3:15. School gets out at 3:20, and I’m still twelve blocks away. I’m going to be late. Again.
I weave through a yellow light and nearly clip a delivery truck. The driver lays on his horn—a long, angry blare that follows me down the block. Welcome to New York.
By some miracle of traffic lights, I pull up to Maple Street Elementary at 3:23. Not bad. Only three minutes of Maisie standing on the sidewalk wondering if today’s the day I don’t show up.
She’s waiting by the fence when I get there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, clutching a piece of paper to her chest like it’s classified information. Her teacher, Mrs. Patterson, waves at me with the tight smile of someone who’s definitely noticed I’m late.
“Hey, Maze.” I crouch down to her level. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was—”
“It’s okay.” She’s already walking toward the car, paper still pressed against her coat.
Okay...
I open the back door for her, help her with the booster seat buckle, and try to get a look at whatever she’s holding. She angles away from me.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s homework.”
“Since when do you hide homework from me?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares out the window as I pull away from the curb, her little jaw set in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of myself it hurts.
I let it go. For now.
The drive home takes twenty minutes through stop-and-go traffic, past bodegas with steamed-up windows and restaurants already setting up for the dinner rush. Maisie doesn’t say a word the whole way, just stares out the window at the passing storefronts, her reflection a ghost in the glass.
I try the radio again. Kid-friendly station this time, the kind that plays sanitized pop songs and has DJs who sound aggressively cheerful. Maisie doesn’t react. Doesn’t sing along like she usually does. Doesn’t even complain when a song she hates comes on.
By the time I pull into the driveway of our townhome—three bedrooms, small backyard, a swing set I put together myself using instructions that were definitely written by someone who hates humans—I’m starting to worry.
“Maze.”
She looks at me in the rearview mirror.
“Whatever that paper is, you know you can show me, right? I’m not going to be mad.”
She considers this. Then, quietly, “Promise?”
“I promise.”
She hands it over.
It’s a family tree. The kind of project every elementary school teacher assigns without thinking about the kids who don’t have neat, simple families to draw. There’s a trunk at the bottom with her name on it—MAISIE, written in careful purple crayon. Two branches extend upward.
On the left branch, there’s me. She drew me with dark hair and a hockey stick, which is both accurate and kind of adorable.
On the right branch, there’s nothing. Just an empty circle where “Mom” should be.
My chest tightens.
“I didn’t know what to put,” she says, voice small. “Mrs. Patterson said we have to fill in both sides, but I don’t... I mean, I don’t really...”
“Hey.” I turn around in my seat to face her. “You can draw Grandma and Grandpa. Or Aunt Claire. Family doesn’t have to mean—”
“It’s supposed to be parents.” She’s not looking at me now. “That’s what the worksheet says. Parents.”
I take a breath. Let it out slow.
“Then draw what you have,” I tell her. “Me. That’s enough.”
She finally meets my eyes, and the doubt I see there guts me. She’s six years old, and she’s already learned that some people leave. That promises don’t always mean anything.
I did that to her. Me, and Sienna, and every choice we made that put this kid in the middle of our mess.
“Come on,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Mrs. Hendricks is probably making dinner. I think I smell her famous mac and cheese.”
Maisie unbuckles herself and climbs out of the car, the family tree clutched in her hand. She doesn’t look convinced.
Neither am I.
Inside, Maisie kicks off her boots without untying them, a habit I’ve given up fighting. They land in a heap by the door, slowly forming a puddle of melted slush on the mat.
And in the kitchen, I find that Mrs. Hendricks is, in fact, making mac and cheese, which was entirely a lucky guess. But it’s the from-scratch kind, with the breadcrumb topping Maisie loves. The kitchen smells like butter and comfort, and for a second, I let myself pretend everything is fine.
“There’s my girl!” Mrs. Hendricks wipes her hands on her apron and bends down to Maisie’s level.
She’s sixty-three, gray-haired, soft in all the ways that matter.
She’s been with us for two years, ever since the last nanny quit because my travel schedule was “incompatible with work-life balance.” Which, fair. “How was school?”
“Fine,” Maisie says, which is her answer for everything.
“Just fine? Nothing exciting?”
Maisie shrugs and heads for the living room, the family tree disappearing into her backpack. Mrs. Hendricks and I exchange a look.
“Rough day?” she asks quietly.
“Family tree project.”
“Ah.” She nods, understanding immediately. “Poor thing.”
I grab a water bottle from the fridge, mostly to have something to do with my hands. “She’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”
“Speaking of figuring things out...” Mrs. Hendricks pauses, and I feel the shift in the air before she even continues. “My daughter called this morning. The baby’s due in three weeks, but the doctor thinks it might come early. She’s been having contractions.”
I set the water bottle down. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. But I might need to fly down to Florida sooner than I thought. Maybe in a week or two.” She hesitates. “And I’m not sure how long I’ll need to stay. First grandchild, you know. She’s nervous, and her husband works long hours, and...”
“Of course.” I hear myself saying the words, calm and reasonable, while my brain short-circuits, running through every possible scenario. “Family comes first. You should be there.”
“I hate to leave you in a lurch. I know the season is—”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say again.
Mrs. Hendricks nods, but her expression tells me she hears what I’m not saying. We’ll figure it out isn’t a plan. It’s a prayer.
I have no backup childcare. My mom lives in Quebec and can fly down for emergencies, but she can’t stay indefinitely—she’s got her own life, her own job.
Sienna is... not an option. Even if I wanted to ask her, which I don’t, she made it clear a long time ago that she’s not interested in being a mother more than once or twice a year when it’s convenient for her Instagram aesthetic.
“I can ask around,” Mrs. Hendricks offers. “I know a few women from church who do childcare. Good people.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
She pats my arm, maternal and kind, and goes back to the mac and cheese. I stand there for a minute, staring at nothing, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to hold all of this together.
Injured shoulder. Playoff push. Six-year-old who needs stability more than anything. And now the one reliable thing in our routine is about to disappear.
We’ll figure it out.
Right.
· · ·
Bedtime takes an hour.
Bath, pajamas, teeth brushing, three books (because Maisie negotiates like a tiny lawyer and I’m too tired to fight her down to two), and finally lights out. I sit on the edge of her bed while she burrows under the covers, stuffed elephant tucked under her chin.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Maze?”
“If Mrs. Hendricks leaves, who’s going to watch me when you’re gone?”
My heart clenches. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure something out, okay? You don’t have to worry about it.”
“But what if you have a game?”
“Then Grandma will come, or I’ll find someone else. Someone nice.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she asks, “What if they leave too?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Not one that won’t be a lie.
So I just lean down, press a kiss to her forehead, and say the only thing I can, “I’m not going anywhere, Maze. You’re stuck with me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied, and closes her eyes. I wait until her breathing evens out before I slip out of the room, leaving the door cracked and the hallway light on, the way she likes it.
The townhome is quiet once she’s asleep. Too quiet.
I ice my shoulder on the couch, twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off, like Tori instructed. I’m a good boy, following her rules.
The TV is on, some hockey recap show I’m not really watching.
I should be reviewing game tape, meal prepping, or answering the twelve emails from my agent that have been sitting in my inbox for three days.
Instead, I’m just sitting here, ice pack melting against my skin, thinking about a woman who told me I wasn’t allowed to lie to her.
I can’t fix what you won’t admit is broken.
She was talking about my shoulder. I know she was talking about my shoulder.
But the words keep echoing anyway, bouncing around my skull, finding all the places I don’t let anyone see.
I think about Maisie’s family tree. The empty circle. The way she said, it’s supposed to be parents, like she already knows she got cheated.
I think about Mrs. Hendricks, leaving for Florida, and how the ground keeps shifting under my feet no matter how hard I try to hold it still.
I think about Sienna, who decided Maisie and I weren’t worth staying for. Who walked out when Maze was six months old and never came back.
I think about my shoulder, and the six to eight weeks I don’t have, and the career that’s the only reason I can give my kid the life she deserves.
And I think about Tori, with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, who smiled at me over tacos and didn’t flinch when I tried to push her away.
I can’t fix what you won’t admit is broken.
Maybe she wasn’t just talking about my shoulder.
Maybe that’s the problem.