Chapter 118 - 100% Cleared

KNOX’S POV

Ten days after Richard Arse tucked his tail between his legs and fled campus, my skates finally bit into fresh ice.

Doc Campbell had cleared me that morning. I passed the baseline cognitive tests, the stationary bike interval drills, and the impact screening without a single flicker of nausea or headache.

The dull throb behind my temples had completely vanished, and the stiffness in my left shoulder was gone.

I was back.

The cold air inside Rink 1 smelled like Zamboni exhaust, wet rubber, and chilled sweat. It was the only scent in the world that could instantly silence the noise in my head.

"Let’s go, Sheridan!" Coach Brennan barked from the bench with his whistle hanging from his teeth. "Two-on-one from the blue line! Move your feet!"

I took a pass from Bear along the half-wall, crossed the blue line with two long strides, and faked a drop pass to Jake. The defenseman bit, shifting his weight just enough for me to cut hard toward the slot.

I leaned into my stick, loading the composite, and whipped a wrist shot toward the top corner.

CLANG.

The puck ricocheted off the iron crossbar and slammed harmlessly into the glass behind the net.

Theo dropped his stick against the ice with a dull thud, resting both gloved hands on his pads as he stared out at me through his white cage.

"Doc Campbell cleared your brain, Sheridan, but he clearly didn’t fix your aim," Theo deadpanned in a completely flat voice. "You’re shooting like you’ve been on vacation in Florida."

Jake skated past, laughing so hard he nearly tripped over his own blades. "Give him a break, Theo! The man’s been confined to dark rooms for a week and a half!"

"Then he should stay in the dark rooms," Theo muttered, skating back into his crease to set up for the next drill. "At least the crossbar gets some rest."

I smirked, tapping my stick against Theo’s leg pad as I circled back. "Next one’s going over your glove, netminder."

"Sure it is, Captain," Theo said, completely unbothered.

By the time Brennan blew the final whistle an hour later, my jersey was soaked through with sweat, my lungs burned in the best possible way, and the locker room was vibrating with noise.

Gear bags were unzipped, rolls of white tape flew across the room, and the showers steamed up the tiled entryway.

"Post-practice beers at O’Malley’s!" Milo announced, pulling a Briar hoodie over his messy brown hair. "First pitcher is on Bear because he missed three backchecks today."

"I was covering your man, you little gremlin," Bear shot back, throwing a crumpled ball of sock tape at Milo’s face.

I stripped off my pads, took a quick shower, and threw on a pair of dark jeans, a faded gray henley, and my leather jacket.

Half an hour later, I was leaning against the mahogany bar at O’Malley’s.

The place was packed with athletes and students celebrating the middle of the week. Pitchers of cider and beer crowded the wooden tables, classic rock was buzzing through the speakers, and every couple of minutes someone slapped my back to congratulate me on keeping the ’C’ on my sweater.

A couple of girls from the varsity swim team lingered near the end of the bar, flashing smiles my way. Two months ago, I would have flirted back without thinking twice. I would have stayed out until closing, soaked up the attention, and let the college routine wash over me.

Now, none of it held my interest.

I looked around the crowded bar, feeling an odd, hollow detachment.

There was only one person I wanted to share this with. One person who had sat beside me in an emergency room at three in the morning, held an ice pack to my jaw, and stared down a team of corporate lawyers without blinking.

For days now, we’d barely had enough time for ourselves. Ever since the Sunday feast, life had kicked into overdrive and dragged us in opposite directions.

Between my mandatory concussion protocol sessions and morning team skates, and Nora drowning under her honors thesis, tutoring appointments, and extra diner shifts, our entire relationship had been reduced to hurried check-in texts and stolen two-minute calls between classes.

I hadn’t properly held her in nearly a week. I missed the quiet warmth of her beside me. I missed the sound of her laugh and the way she looked wrapped up in my oversized hoodies.

I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out my phone, and stepped out the back exit into the chilly alley air.

I dialed Nora’s number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

"Hi, this is Nora Bennett. I’m currently in class or at work. Please leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can."

The mechanical beep sounded.

I didn’t leave a message. I hung up, staring at the screen for a second before tapping open our message thread.

Knox: Hey Bookworm. Doc Campbell gave me the green light this morning. 100% cleared for contact.

I paused, watching the gray cursor blink against the screen, then added:

Knox: Come over to the SinBin tonight. I’ll make Bear grill those garlic steaks you liked.

I locked the phone, slid it back into my pocket, and walked back inside.

Two hours passed.

The team moved the party from O’Malley’s back toward campus, but by six o’clock I had already walked back to the SinBin. Downstairs, Bear and Jake were playing darts in the living room while Milo tried to figure out how to order twenty dollars of mozzarella sticks on his phone.

My phone vibrated against the kitchen counter at six-twenty.

I picked it up instantly.

Nora: I’m so, so sorry Knox! I was trapped in Hastings’ econometric capstone seminar until five, and now I’m literally sprinting across campus for a cover shift at Rusty’s. I am so happy you’re cleared. Truly. Nobody deserves to be on that ice more than you.

A second text popped up right behind it.

Nora: I get off around eight-thirty. I’ll walk back to the dorm and call you at 9 xx

I stared down at the screen, my thumb tracing the little "xx" at the end of her sentence. A faint, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

She was drowning in work, and she was still thinking about me.

Don’t run yourself ragged, Bennett, I texted back. Call me whenever you’re free. I’ll be up.

I headed upstairs, threw my keys on the dresser, and showered the smell of bar smoke off my skin.

By eight-forty-five, I had pulled on a pair of dark sweatpants and a long-sleeve tee, leaning against the headboard of my bed with my playbook open on my lap.

Nine o’clock came.

The screen of my phone remained black.

I turned a page of the playbook, studying Brennan’s new neutral zone forecheck, but the diagrams weren’t sticking.

Nine-thirty.

Downstairs, the sound of the television had faded as Bear and Jake turned in early for morning conditioning skates. The house went dead quiet.

Ten o’clock.

I picked up the phone. I clicked the side button, watching the lock screen glow with the digital clock: 10:14 PM.

No missed texts. No notifications.

I swallowed the tight knot in my throat, opened her contact, and pressed call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it clicked straight into the automated voicemail.

I slowly lowered the phone, resting it against my thigh.

The silence in my bedroom felt suffocating. She was barely two miles away, living on the same campus, walking the same sidewalks. But between her scholarship deadlines and her diner apron, she felt a million miles out of reach.

I tossed the playbook onto the nightstand, clicked off the bedside lamp, and lay back in the dark, staring up at the ceiling while the quiet ticked away.