Page 74 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
The officer's flashlight lingered on Austin's face, recognition dawning. "You're Austin Callahan."
"Yes, sir."
"Big fan," the officer said, his stern expression melting slightly. "But maybe find somewhere more private for your... discussions. This isn't the safest place to be parked at night."
"Absolutely. Thank you, officer," Austin replied smoothly.
As the officer walked away, we sat in stunned silence for a moment before bursting into simultaneous laughter.
"Oh my god," I gasped, burying my face in my hands. "Did we just get caught like teenagers?"
"Yep," Austin said, starting the car with a grin I'd never seen before—totally unrestrained, almost boyish.
CHAPTER 18
AUSTIN
The familiar smell of ice and sweat hit me as I stepped into the arena for my final practice before officially returning to the lineup. The sounds—skates carving ice, pucks hitting boards, teammates shouting plays—wrapped around me like a homecoming. Six months of grueling rehab had led to this moment.
"Look who finally decided to join us!" Dennis shouted across the ice, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "The prodigal defenseman returns!"
I flipped him off good-naturedly as I stepped onto the ice, feeling the slight twinge in my knee that had become my constant companion. Not pain exactly—just a reminder of what I'd been through.
"How's it feeling today?" Coach Martinez asked, skating up beside me during warm-ups.
"Good," I said, meaning it for once. "Stable. Strong."
He nodded, eyes assessing me with the clinical precision I'd grown used to. "Show me. Full drills today, no restrictions."
My heart rate kicked up a notch. No restrictions. The words I'd been waiting to hear for months.
Practice moved at a punishing pace. Martinez was testing me—we both knew it—pushing to see if my knee would hold. I gritted my teeth through defensive zone coverage drills, battled along the boards, and even took a few hits. Each successful movement rebuilt a piece of my confidence that had been shattered along with my ACL.
"Looking good, Stone," Becker, our captain, said during a water break. "That cross-ice pass was fucking beautiful."
"Thanks," I said, pouring water down my throat. "Knee's holding up."
"Better than holding up. You're skating better than before the injury."
I wouldn't go that far, but there was something different in my movements—a new awareness, perhaps. Months of obsessive rehabilitation had tuned me into every muscle, every movement pattern in a way I'd never bothered with before.
Kate would say something about neural pathways and rebuilding connections. The thought of her made me smile involuntarily.
"There it is," Dennis said, sliding to a stop beside me and spraying ice. "The 'thinking about science girl' face."
"Fuck off," I muttered, smirking.
"Callahan!" Coach's voice cut across the ice. "Power play unit. Let's go."
For the next hour, I pushed harder than I had since the injury, determined to prove I was ready—to Coach, to the team, to myself. When we finally finished, my knee ached, but it wasthe good kind of ache. The kind that meant progress, not damage.
In the locker room, Coach Martinez cleared his throat, silencing the post-practice chatter.
"Alright, listen up. Lineup changes for tomorrow night against Seattle." He paused, his gaze finding mine. "Callahan's back in. Second pairing with Erikson, power play unit one."
The room erupted, guys thumping me on the back, shouting congratulations. I sat there, trying to process the emotions swirling through me—relief, excitement, fear.
"About fucking time!" Dennis shouted over the noise. "The power play's been shit without you!"
