The engine purred to a stop and I shut it off, letting myself sit for a long moment, doing my best to live in the moment, to appreciate where I was. What I had achieved.

But fuck, Dad’s voice was always in my ear, and I wondered, at what point would it all be enough for him? Or at what point would I stop caring what he thought?

I hopped out and grabbed my gear, blowing out a long breath and doing my best to clear my head as I stepped inside the house and hit the button for the garage door.

I went weeks without falling back into the pit of self-recrimination that Dad had helped me build as a kid. But then I’d talk to him, and he’d find ways to push me back in.

“Your brother’s getting married,” Dad had announced this morning when I’d called him to check in. “Can you believe it? He built a brokerage and a house, and now he’s gonna build a family.” The pride in Dad’s voice was unmistakeable and, as always, it leveled me. When my father spoke to TJ, did he sound this proud about me?

I already knew the answer.

TJ was the miracle kid. The baby who was delivered blue and still, but who magically came back to life against all odds. He was the star athlete, the star student, and being two years older than me meant everything he achieved marked the first time a Samuels kid ever did anything. Leaving me always trailing behind.

“He told me, Dad.” I’d already talked to TJ, who was thankfully less enthusiastic about reciting all of his many incredible attributes than my father was. Teej and I were friends. Always had been. It wasn’t his fault he’d been born first. Or that our mother had died giving birth to me.

That was just the luck of the draw.

Harvey came prowling around the corner as I stepped into the entryway between the garage and the laundry room, his sleek gray head leading the long athletic body. He dropped to sit directly in front of me and tilted his head to the side, looking up at me with deep green eyes and letting out a single long mmm-ow.

“Hey buddy.” I dropped my gear and leaned down to scoop up the cat, who looked up into my face and put his front paws on my neck. “How was your day?”

Harvey was more dog than cat, but he was also self-sufficient when I traveled with the team for games. He was a perfect companion for me—always proud of me, always happy to see me. He’d arrived on my doorstep as soon as I’d bought this house, and I suspected he might have lived here before and been abandoned. I’d asked around the neighborhood and taken him to be scanned for a chip, but no one had been able to help me locate his family, and Harvey seemed pretty convinced he lived with me.

So I let him.

It was nice coming home at the end of the day, having someone eager to spend time with me, willing to listen.

Even if that somene was a cat. When you’d scrambled for every bit of attention you’d ever managed to receive, you weren’t picky about where it came from.

I showered and cooked, settling myself next to Harvey on the couch at the end of the day and flipping on the some old tape to review to keep me company. Sometimes I went out with a few of the guys from the team—Mario and Van usually. We were the youngest, and I guess we felt most comfortable together. Joining the Wombats was a lot to wrap your head around, and stepping in to stand next to some of the best players in the league was tough. Those of us who were new looked out for one another, helped each other.

But those guys had families to visit, girlfriends to spend time with.

I was just glad I had Harvey, even though it was kind of hard to get used to his favorite spot to watch television, which was behind me on the top of the couch, his paws kneading my head.

As the video from last season’s last game rolled, I picked up my phone and called Mizzoni. It was three hours earlier in California, so I knew he’d still be up.

“Hey, Samuels,” he said.

“Mizzoni. How are you?”

“Honestly?” he asked, a smile in his voice. “I’ve never been better. How are things in Wilcox? How’s the team?”

“Pretty good,” I said. “Just trying to stay in shape, work out some kinks before next season.”

“I saw the last few games, John. There aren’t a lot of kinks. You’re a great goalie. And you know how hard that is for me to say.”

“I appreciate it. The words and how hard it is for you to say,” I laughed. “I just don’t want to take the chance for granted.”

“Yeah, well, there’s something to be said for time off too.”

I turned myself on the couch, moving my head out of Harvey’s attentive grip. He let out a meow, and hopped down into my lap, shooting me a green-eyed glare before curling into a circle and tucking his head. “I think I need to use the time to get better. I just don’t want to blow things.”

“Most players take at least a month off the skates. Your body needs the rest.”

I blew out a breath. “I know it sounds kind of superstitious …” I began.

“Oh here we go. Okay, what is it?”

“I just have this feeling if I let myself relax, everything will vanish. Like if I spend a day off skates, if I just let my guard down, it’s all going to be gone when I try to step back on the ice.”

“That’s kinda fucked up. The talent is in you, not in some magical practice you’re undertaking, which, by the way, will also set you up for an injury if you’re not careful. Take it from someone who’s been there.”

“Yeah…I do appreciate your advice…”

“But you’re not gonna take it.”

“I’ll try. I will.”

“Tomorrow. No skating.” Mizzoni’s voice had become lower, a growl, and I remembered how intimidating he’d been when we’d first met. Of course, back then, he’d been worried I was going to take his position on the team.

His worries had been well founded, as it turned out.

“I’ll just do a light day. I’m not going to lift tomorrow.”

I could almost hear Mizzoni’s disapproval in his breath, though he said nothing. His silence made me feel like I should explain myself. Like if I just told him how important it was that I hang onto this opportunity, that I prove I’m worthy of it, he’d understand. But he was already talking.

“Hey, man, I have to go. Hillary’s got this thing tonight I promised I’d go to.”

“Yeah, totally. Sorry to keep you.”

“No, I’m glad you called. Just… John?”

“Yeah?”

“Take it easy on yourself, okay? You’re fucking talented. That’s not going to vanish overnight.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. Tell Hillary hi for me.”

“I will.”

We hung up and I let Mizzoni’s words seep in around the anxiety I couldn’t seem to shake. I knew he was right—I’d gotten this far. But I could do more. Better. And that wouldn’t happen if I let my guard down. When I got where I was going, I’d rest.

Harvey raised his head and narrowed his eyes at me, as if he could read my thoughts and didn’t approve any more than my mentor did.

“Go back to sleep,” I told him. Harvey let out a little meow and then dropped his head again.

On the screen, the clash between the Wombats and the Titans unfolded, and I tensed, anticipating the goal I had let slip past me in the dwindling moments of the second period. I tapped the remote, reducing the playback speed to dissect my error in agonizing detail. The play developed: their center, a fucking wizard with puck control, seized a breakout pass and dashed across the blue line, evading our defenseman with a slick deke. He barrelled into the offensive zone, eyes flicking between me and his winger on the rush, keeping our defense guessing.

As he approached the faceoff circle, he feinted towards the boards, luring Simpson to overcommit. With a swift cut back to the center, he created just enough space for a clear shot. I was anchored in the crease, my stance ready. But he unleashed a low, sizzling wrist shot, and I knew in that second I’d made a critical error. I’d shifted too far left, and there was no time to correct. I cringed as I watched myself thrust my right leg pad out, but it was too late. The puck slid through the narrow gap of the five hole.

The red light blazed behind me, a glaring reminder of my lapse. The sting of that moment, the sharp pang of failure, surged through me all over again. Not enough. In that moment—in so many moments—I’m just not fucking enough.