Chapter 61: Still Part Of The Game

Marcus's POV

I’ve learned that the rink sounds different when you’re not on the ice.

The scrape of blades, the sharp crack of pucks against the boards, the bark of the coach’s voice—it all feels farther away somehow, like I’m listening through glass. I sit high up in the bleachers, my left knee braced and throbbing faintly, a clipboard balanced across my lap. The crutches are propped against the seat beside me, a reminder I don’t need but can’t escape.

I hate this part. Watching instead of doing. But I promised myself I wouldn’t waste a single day.

So I watch. I write. I think.

Damian is running drills at center ice, barking instructions, adjusting spacing when the lines start to drift. Peter is skating like he always does—loose, fast, grinning even as he chirps at a defenseman who misses a pass. The team is good. Better than people give us credit for. And even sitting here, sidelined, I can see what needs tightening. I jot down notes.

Breakout too slow on left side.

Defense collapsing early—trust the wings.

Power play entry predictable. Switch formation.

The coach glances up at me once and gives a subtle nod. He knows what I’m doing. He encouraged it, actually. Told me that a good player learns when he’s hurt—and a great one finds other ways to contribute. Still, there’s a knot in my chest that won’t fully loosen.

Because watching isn’t the same as being seen.

Scouts don’t come to watch injured players sit in the stands. They come to see speed. Strength. Risk. All the things I can’t show them right now.

I exhale slowly and force myself back into focus. The drill shifts, the tempo increasing. I adjust my notes, sketching arrows, timing patterns. Somewhere between the second and third line change, I sense someone beside me. Not the usual shuffle of a teammate or trainer. This presence is deliberate. I glance up.

He’s older, maybe mid-forties, wearing a neutral jacket with no obvious logos. His posture is relaxed but attentive, eyes sharp as they track the play on the ice. A clipboard rests under his arm, well-worn, edges soft from use.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks.

I blink once, then shake my head. “Yeah—sure. Go ahead.”

He takes the seat beside me, watching the ice for a moment before looking over.

“You’re Marcus McKay.”

It’s not a question. I straighten slightly. “Yeah.”

He extends a hand. “Douglas Finn. National scout for the Straubing Tigers.”

For half a second, my brain stalls. Straubing. Europe.

My hand finds his automatically, grip firm despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. “Nice to meet you.”

He smiles faintly. “Likewise.”

We sit in silence for a beat, both of us watching as a winger fumbles a pass at the blue line. Douglas hums under his breath, scribbling something on his clipboard.

“You’re not on the ice,” he says casually.

“Injured,” I reply. “Knee. Temporary.”

He nods. “I know.”

That shouldn’t surprise me. Still, my stomach tightens.

“I’ve seen your tapes,” Douglas continues. “Not just highlights. Full games. Practices. Bench footage.”

I glance at him, caught off guard. “Bench footage?”

He smiles again. “You’d be amazed at what we look for.”

I swallow. “And?”

“And I’m impressed,” he says simply. “You read the game well. You adjust fast. You communicate. Those things don’t disappear with an injury.”

Something inside me loosens, just a fraction.

“I’m not worried about the knee,” I say. “Doctor says rehab should have me back in form.”

Douglas nods. “That matches what I’ve been told.”

He glances down at my clipboard. “Mind if I look?”

I hesitate for only a second before angling it toward him. “Go ahead.”

He studies my notes carefully, eyes moving line by line. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t skim. Finally, he lets out a low whistle. “You chart your own plays?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Habit.”

“These adjustments—” he taps the board lightly, “—they’re smart. You’re not just reacting. You’re anticipating.”

I feel heat creep up my neck. “I’ve always liked the strategy side of it.”

Douglas looks at me fully now. “Have you ever considered sports science?”

I blink. “I—what?”

“At Straubing,” he continues, “we don’t just develop players. We develop thinkers. Analysts. Coaches. Sports scientists. Some of our best minds started as injured athletes who refused to stop learning.”

My heart starts to pound.

"I've always liked reading Sports Medicine journals,” I admit. "But my dad never liked it. He always says it's hockey or nothing."

He shakes his head. “That’s a narrow view. One I don’t share.”

He gestures toward the ice. “You see the game differently. Even sitting here, you’re contributing. That tells me something.”

I don’t trust my voice for a moment.

“Straubing believes in longevity,” Douglas adds. “In adaptability. Players who understand the body, the mechanics, the why behind performance—they last longer. On and off the ice.”

I think of my father. Of his rigid vision. Of the way he sees only one path forward and bulldozes anything in the way.

And I think of Anna. Of how she believes in choice. In growth. In becoming more than what people expect.

Douglas stands, adjusting his jacket. “Your injury is a setback, Marcus. Nothing more. If you’re interested, we’d be happy to keep talking—about hockey, or sports science, or both.”

He extends his hand again. I stand carefully, bracing my weight properly, and shake it.

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it more than I can express.

He smiles. “Get healthy. Keep thinking. We’ll be in touch.” He walks away, disappearing toward the tunnel.

I sink back into my seat, heart racing. For the first time since the injury, the fear loosens its grip entirely. Because for the first time, I don’t feel like everything hinges on my knee. I look back down at my notes, at the plays and patterns and possibilities sprawled across the page. Maybe this injury didn’t take something from me. Maybe it revealed something instead. I pull out my phone and type a message with trembling fingers.

Met a Straubing scout today. He saw my notes. He believes in me.

The reply comes almost immediately.

I always have.

I smile, leaning back as the sounds of the rink swell around me again. I’m still part of this game. And my future—my real future—just cracked wide open.