Worth The Wait

𝟎𝟖| 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓

I gripped the boards, staring down at the ice, willing it to make sense. It didn't. It never did, not anymore. The thing I had loved my entire life—the thing that had made me who I was—now felt like it was slipping through my fingers. My knee ached, a constant reminder of what I had lost. What I might never get back.
I pushed off the barrier, skating a slow lap around the rink, testing my weight on my injured leg. The movement was second nature, but the hesitation in my stride told me what I already knew: I wasn't the same. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
That thought made my chest tighten.
I didn't do "not ever." I had spent my whole life fighting, pushing through pain, proving I was strong enough, fast enough, good enough. If I couldn't play hockey, then what the hell was I supposed to do?
"You're pushing too hard."
The voice cut through my frustration, sharp and familiar.
I exhaled through my nose before turning to find Lucie Basille standing at the edge of the rink, arms crossed over her chest. Her brown hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she was watching me with that look again—the one that always made me wonder what the hell her problem was with me.
"You're spying on me now, Basille?" I shot back, forcing a smirk even though her gaze was starting to chip away at my temper.
She rolled her eyes. "Hardly. I train here, remember?"
Right. This was her world. Figure skaters trained at ridiculous hours, obsessed over technique, perfected every movement with a level of precision that hockey players never even thought about. I belonged in a packed arena, shoulder-to-shoulder with my teammates, not here in an empty rink at night, trying to skate off my frustration.
But I had nowhere else to go.
"Seriously," she continued, stepping onto the ice with that cocky confidence of hers, the kind that always grated on my nerves. "You keep favoring that leg. You're going to wreck your knee again if you don't back off."
I glared at her, trying to shut down the knot of irritation rising in my chest. "I can handle it," I muttered through clenched teeth.
Lucie arched a brow, her expression unreadable. "Yeah? Because it looks like you're handling it by making it worse."
I bit down on the anger bubbling up. She wasn't wrong. My knee wasn't healed, and I knew it. But stopping wasn't an option. If I stopped, that meant accepting that I might not come back. And that wasn't something I was ready to face.
Lucie skated closer, her movements effortless and smooth in a way that made me want to punch something. She had this way of gliding across the ice, like she owned it, like nothing could touch her. Meanwhile, I was struggling to even move without pain shooting through my leg.
I shoved the frustration down. "What do you want, Basille? You want me to sit here and pout about it?"
She didn't flinch, just stood there, calm as ever, like she didn't have a care in the world. "No," she said, voice low and cutting, "I want you to stop pretending like you're invincible. You're not."
I opened my mouth to snap back, but the words felt hollow, like I didn't even believe them myself. Instead, I gritted my teeth, spinning on my heel and pushing off, skating another lap to clear my head.
But the silence of the rink was broken by her voice again, just loud enough for me to hear.
"You know, it's not just your leg you're afraid of," she said, quieter this time. "You're scared that you won't come back the same. That your game will be gone."
Her words hit me harder than I cared to admit. I clenched my jaw, my heart racing, but I didn't stop skating. I couldn't face the truth in her words. Not yet.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I shot back, my voice low and harsh.
Lucie didn't back down. "You're scared that even if you heal, you won't be the same player. That you'll never be as good as you were."
I wanted to shout at her to mind her own business, but something in the pit of my stomach stopped me. She was right. That was exactly it. Every day, I trained like a man on fire, trying to claw my way back, but the fear... the fear was always there, lurking just behind every step I took.
I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus on the cold sting of the air, the sound of my blades cutting through the ice. "I don't need your advice," I muttered, trying to shake her off.
Lucie tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Maybe you should listen for once."
I shot her a quick glare, but she wasn't even looking at me anymore, already skating toward the edge of the rink.
"I'm not here for your pity," I called out, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.
She glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of something in her eyes that I couldn't read—maybe annoyance, maybe something else. "Pity's for losers," she said, then turned and skated off.
I let out a breath, frustration burning through me as I skated another lap, the sting of her words hanging in the air.
I wasn't ready to admit it, but maybe Lucie was right. Maybe I was scared. Scared that I would never be the player I used to be. Scared that even if my body healed, my mind would hold me back. And that, more than anything, was what made me hate every damn second of this recovery.
But I wouldn't quit. Not yet. I just had to find a way to fight through it.
Because no matter how much I hated it, she wasn't wrong.
I stayed by the boards for a while, trying to shake the weight of my thoughts. The cold, the ice, the exhaustion from the day—it was all starting to settle in. But it didn't drown out Lucie's voice, echoing in the back of my mind.
I had spent my whole career trying to control the chaos. I used to live for the adrenaline, for the grind. But now, it felt like every step forward was just one step away from what I once was.
The rink felt smaller tonight, the walls closing in as I worked to suppress the self-doubt creeping up on me. There was a time when nothing could take me off the ice, when I didn't hesitate, when every stride felt like it came with a purpose. But now, I couldn't even trust my body to hold up. And if my body didn't hold up, what did that make me?
I ran a hand over my face, frustration bubbling inside. Maybe Lucie was right, maybe I had been pretending. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of something I wasn't ready to face. I didn't know how to take the next step. Hell, I wasn't even sure what the next step was.
The door to the rink creaked open behind me, and I didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Still here?" Kolton's voice cut through the quiet, rough with a hint of amusement. "You've been staring at the boards long enough to make 'em self-conscious."
I turned, offering a forced grin. "Just thinking."
He raised an eyebrow, crossing the rink with a quick stride. "About what? How much you suck at figure skating now?"
I rolled my eyes. "Not today, man."
Kolton leaned against the boards beside me, his expression shifting to something more serious. "I get it, you know? The whole 'trying to come back' thing. But sitting on the sidelines and moping about it doesn't do anyone any good."
I stared at him, not sure what to make of his sudden shift in tone. Kolton wasn't exactly known for being the deep, reflective type. But there was something in his eyes—something real.
"You've been here long enough to know how this game works," he continued, his voice quieter now. "You don't get to pick when you're ready. You just... start. It won't be perfect, and it sure as hell won't be easy, but that's how you come back. You start, and you keep pushing forward. You don't wait for some magical sign to tell you it's okay."
I blinked, the weight of his words hitting me harder than I expected. He was right, as much as I hated to admit it. There would never be a perfect moment to come back. I couldn't sit around waiting for my knee to feel flawless, for the fear to disappear. I just had to start. Even if it wasn't perfect.
Kolton slapped me on the back, breaking the tension. "You can't keep hiding in here forever, man. It's time."
I didn't respond right away, but the words hit me in a way I hadn't anticipated. Maybe it wasn't about being ready. Maybe it was about making myself ready by doing the work.
"Alright," I finally said, standing up straight. "I'll take the first step."
Kolton smirked, giving me an exaggerated salute. "That's the spirit. Now get your ass out there. We're not getting any younger."
I exhaled, a deep breath that felt almost like a release. Kolton was right. It was time to stop waiting, time to stop pretending I was invincible. The real fight was about moving forward, not dwelling on what I couldn't control.
The ice felt a little less cold beneath my feet as I pushed off, my stride more certain this time.
It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. It was also nice that my best friend was here for me. I never thought he wouldn't but these last few month's it's been all about sophia and their marriage but it was also nice to just be a guy and be bestfriends for a moment.
────୨ৎ────
I sat on the bench, stick resting across my knees, fingers tapping against the shaft as I watched the team move through drills. The scent of ice, sweat, and sharpened steel filled the rink, a smell so familiar it was like home. The sharp crack of pucks hitting sticks, the low hum of skates carving into the ice—it all should've felt normal.
But it didn't. Because I wasn't out there. Not yet. I wanted to be better but I was still slow. I couldn't move as fast as them yet.
Kolton, Jackson, Jameson, Zack, Ross, Adam, and Miles flew across the rink, running a high-intensity forechecking drill. The whistle blew, sending a new wave of players into motion. The pace was relentless, just the way I liked it.
The way I used to play.
Coach stood at the rink's edge, watching with his arms crossed. "Move your feet, Ross! Close the gap! Adam, don't get caught puck-watching!"
Ross, a big defenseman with a bruiser's build, tried to step up, but Jackson slipped past him, cutting into the slot before ripping a shot past the goalie.
Ross slammed his stick against the ice in frustration. "Damn it!"
Kolton, always the smartass, skated by and smirked. "Maybe try keeping up next time."
Ross flipped him off, earning a laugh from the guys.
I let out a breath through my nose, adjusting my grip on my stick. Normally, I'd be chirping along with them, pushing them harder. Instead, I was stuck here, watching like an outsider. Not feeling included in the one thing you loved in life is worse than not playing.
Coach finally turned toward me. "River, how's the leg?"
I straightened slightly, meeting his gaze. "Holding up."
He studied me for a beat. "You still doing your rehab?"
"Yeah," I muttered, though the half-assed sessions in the gym probably weren't what he meant.
"Good," he said, then added, "You should be out there."
I tensed. "I will be."
Coach didn't press, but his expression said enough. He wasn't convinced. Hell, neither was I.
The next drill was all about quick transitions—something I used to thrive in. Miles retrieved the puck behind the net, made a sharp breakout pass, and the forwards attacked with speed.
Kolton and Jameson connected on a perfect give-and-go, slicing through the neutral zone like they were reading each other's minds. Jameson sauced a pass across the slot, and Kolton snapped it past the goalie.
The red light flashed, and the guys hooted in celebration.
Jackson skated by the bench and smacked the boards near me. "Bet you're dying to be out here."
I forced a smirk. "Maybe a little."
"More than a little," Kolton chimed in as he skated over, sweat dripping down his face. "You look like a damn ghost, man. Are you gonna try and get back out here, or will you just sit there forever?"
I clenched my jaw. "Working on it."
Kolton didn't let up. "Then show up. Stop sitting on the sidelines like you're already retired."
I exhaled, but Coach blew the whistle again before I could respond. "Alright, last drill! Five-on-five scrimmage, full intensity!"
I watched as the guys lined up for a faceoff. My heart pounded, my muscles aching to move, to get out there and be part of it. But I didn't. Kolton's words stuck with me. Like I'm already tired. I'm only 30 years old. I shouldn't be almost retired. I should be at the top of my game.
After practice, most of the team hit the showers after practice, but Kolton, Jameson, Jackson, and miles stayed with me in the weight room.
The air smelled like metal and sweat, the hum of machines and clatter of weights filling the space.
I wrapped my hands around a barbell, my fingers tightening around the cold steel. My body was strong, my muscles still knew what to do—but my mind? That was another story. I used to love this. The grind, the sweat, the push to be better every single day. But now, every rep felt like a reminder of what I'd lost.
Kolton racked his weights and turned to me. "Alright, what's the plan? You gonna actually lift, or just stare at the bar all day?"
I forced a smirk. "Give me a second."
Jackson snorted. "At this rate, we'll be done before you even start." I ignored them, chalking up my hands before finally stepping under the bar. I settled it onto my shoulders, took a deep breath, and dropped into a squat. The weight pressed down, heavy but familiar. I pushed up, my muscles straining, but the movement was clean.
"Not bad," Mile said, nodding. "Still got some power in those legs."
I set the bar back on the rack, exhaling. "Yeah, well, power isn't the problem."
Jameson grabbed a medicine ball and tossed it at me. "Then what is?"
I caught it automatically, gripping it tight. The fear. The doubt. The feeling that even if I got back on the ice, I wouldn't be the same player I was before. The pain I still felt. The ache is now in my knee and my leg. I shook my head. "I don't know."
Kolton, Jameson, and Jackson exchanged looks. Then, Kolton stepped forward. "Yeah, you do."
I clenched my jaw. "No, I don't."
He crossed his arms. "You're scared."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. "I'm not scared."
"Yeah, you are," Jackson said. "You're scared that when you come back, you won't be as good as you were before."
I tossed the medicine ball onto the mat, the sound echoing through the room. "You don't know what you're talking about." I appreciate that Jackson said when I came back. The doctor and my rehab specialist said If I went back.
"Don't I?" Kolton stepped closer. "You sit on the sidelines, watching like you're already done. But we all know you're not. So what the hell are you waiting for?"
I swallowed hard, my chest tight.
"You think we don't get it?" Jameson added. "We've all had setbacks. We've all doubted ourselves at some point. But you—you're acting like you've already lost the fight."
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration clawing at me. "I just don't know if I can get back to where I was."
Kolton's expression softened. "Maybe you won't. But you won't know unless you try."
The room went quiet, the weight of their words settling over me. I wanted to argue. To push back. But they were right. I wasn't just injured. I was afraid. Afraid that I'd lost everything. That even if my body healed, my game never would.
I let out a slow breath. "I don't know where to start."
Kolton smirked. "That's why you've got us, dumbass."
I huffed a laugh despite myself.
"Come on," Jackson said, grabbing a pair of battle ropes. "Time to actually do some work."
For the next hour, we trained like we used to—pushing each other, competing, refusing to let up.
It wasn't easy. My body protested, my muscles burning, but I forced myself to keep going.
Because they were right.
I wasn't done.
Not yet.