Page 129 of Almost Ours
Shane called me, though. Made me go.
“You’re coming with me, or I’m dragging your sorry ass there myself, Barzal.”
So I went.
I expected the worst. I expected Kyle to look at me with hate. To tell me I’d ruined his life. To rip me apart like I deserved.
But when I walked in, he just gave me a tired, lopsided grin.
“Took you long enough.”
And that was it.
No anger. No blame.
He was pissed, sure. He’d just had his entire life ripped away from him. But not once–not once–did he look at me like I was the reason.
Even when the doctor told him he’d never walk again.
I left the hospital feeling worse than when I’d walked in.
Because if Kyle didn’t hate me, then I had to do it for him.
And then the media had its story.
The headlines were everywhere the next day.
DIRTY HIT ENDS PROMISING CAREER. HOCKEY’S MOST DANGEROUS PLAYER STRIKES AGAIN. WHEN WILL THE NHL STOP RYAN BARZAL?
They tore me apart. Panel after panel dissected the hit, played the clip on a loop, analyzed my history. They called me reckless. A danger to the sport. Some even said I should be banned from the league entirely.
I could’ve fought back. Released a statement. Hired a PR team.
None of it mattered, though.
Because they weren’t wrong.
The hit might have been clean, but the result was the same. Kyle was in a wheelchair. His career was over. Because of me.
I couldn’t take it. The guilt. The cameras. The analysts picking my career apart like I was some kind of monster.
So I left.
I walked away from the NHL, from the only thing I’d ever know, because I didn’t deserve it anymore.
I blinked hard,shaking myself free of the memory as I pulled into Kyle’s driveway, killing the engine and grabbing my bag before heading inside.
I killed the engine, and grabbed my bag before heading inside. Kyle was already there, waiting with an easy grin.
“You know the drill. Your room’s all set,” he said, nodding toward the hallway.
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.
The guest room had become my default landing spot whenever I was in town. It was simple–clean lines, neutral colours, none of the clutter of my own place–but there was something about it that made it feel like a second home. Maybe because Kyle had made sure it did.
Dropping my bag by the bed, I grabbed fresh clothes and headed for the shower.
The hot water worked out the tension in my shoulders, washing away the sweat and exhaustion from practice. My muscles ached in that satisfying way that only came from pushing yourself, and by the time I stepped out and dried off, I felt human again.
