Page 40 of The Rebound Plan

I stay under the surface until my lungs burn, swimming all the way to the ladder in the quiet. When I burst back into the air and climb the rungs, he’s moved over.

I flop down on the other half of the floating dock.

“How do you think it’s going this weekend?” I ask. Changing the subject. Reminding myself of why we’re here.

He looks out across the water. At first, I think he might not answer. Then he shoves a hand through his hair. “It’s been good. Necessary. We aren’t as cohesive a team as some others I’ve been on.”

“How many has it been, seven?”

“This is my eighth team.” He says it matter-of-factly, but there’s something in his voice that grabs at me.

Like maybe he knows it’s his final team. “That’s a lot.”

He nods. “Max has only had the two, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Every team is different. Twice, I’ve done what Ty did last year, and join a team right at the trade deadline. Both times they were really gunning for the playoffs, and they weretightdressing rooms.”

I hear that same tension in his words again. “How far did you get in those playoff runs?”

“Conference finals both times. Lost both times, but they were good runs. I want to do that again.”

“Of course you do. And you will.”

He frowns and swipes at his beard.

“Are you going to shave for the season?” The question bursts out of me.

He did last year, most of the time. The beard didn’t come in until the playoffs. And even though they were only in it for one round, he kept it over the summer.

“Aye.” He tugs on the short strands. “I’m going to be an ambassador for Hockey Fights Cancer and grow a moustache for Movember, so I’ll have to shave at the start of that.”

“Are you superstitious about it?”

“My beard? No. I’ve never found any correlation between superstitions and success on the ice.” He pauses. “Well…”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

But his expression, staring hard across the late, his brows tight, says otherwise. “Tell me.”

He chuckles. “No.”

“Come on. I’ve been around hockey a long time. I promise it won’t shock me. It can’t be weirder than needing to talk to your gear privately before the game. Or the year that two players bothneededto put their jerseys on last.”

His eyebrows jerk up. “I missed that one. How did they settle that?”

“Simultaneous dressing. On the count of three. And then one of them got traded at the trade deadline.”

“It’s nothing like that.” He wipes his hand over his mouth. “I, uh, have just been thinking hard about how this my last chance at the Cup, and I got distracted last year. I’m not fooling myself about my role on the team or anything, I know I’m not the reason we lost, but I wasn’t the reason we won, either.”

“You want to make sure that you give it absolutely everything.” I’m nodding along. This isn’t a weird superstition at all. This is standard hockey player devotion. “That makes complete sense. That’s normal, Russ. It’s okay to put other priorities on hold. Is this about Emery?”

He jolts. “No. Not… No.” His brows pull tight and he takes a deep breath. “It’s not?—”

I wait.

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