I walked the length of the boards once.
Twice.
The Zamboni had already done its thing—fresh ice, smooth as glass. I liked it best like this. No skates yet. No noise. Just the chill and the sharp smell of resurfaced ice. My breath fogged in front of me as I gripped the edge of the boards, waiting for what? I didn't know.
Behind me, the door creaked.
"You planning to haunt this place, or just moving in early?"
Coop’s voice cut through the silence, a mix of amusement and genuine confusion. I turned to find him holding two to-go cups, steam curling into the cold air. His hoodie was half-zipped, like he’d dressed in the dark, and only one side of his hair looked brushed.
"Couldn’t sleep," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "So you thought, hey, I’ll go skate ghost laps in the dark? You okay, man?"
I shrugged. "Trying to lose the tell."
Coop stepped beside me, elbows resting against the boards, handing me the coffee. I took it.
"You know, some of us do that by watching tape. Not lurking in an icebox like a lost ghost of Christmas past."
"I watched tape," I muttered. "A lot of it."
He nodded, then waited. Coop was annoyingly good at that—letting silence do the work.
"I don’t know what I’m doing anymore," I hesitated, then let out. "With Riley, with the team. With... everything. But I know how to train. So that’s what I’m doing."
"Huh." He sipped his coffee. "Well, that’s more honest than I expected. And less dramatic than your usual epiphanies. Proud of you."
I gave him a look. He grinned.
"No, really," he said. "Showing up early? Staying late? Who are you and what have you done with the guy who used to sleep through morning skate and blame the traffic?"
"He’s tired of screwing everything up."
Coop didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stretched his arms overhead, his hoodie riding up slightly with the motion.
"Alright, emo hour’s over. Let’s go see if you still shoot like someone who peaked in college."
The door banged again.
"Speak of the devil," Coop muttered. The goalie—Finn—stepped onto the ice, already in partial gear, nodding at us.
"Let’s get to work," I said, stepping onto the ice.
The blades bit into the surface with a sound I’d always loved. A sound that said you’re here now. Whatever else is going on, you can do this. This at least made sense.
Finn squared up. I slid into position, puck at my stick.
"Ready?"
He nodded.
I took the shot.
He blocked it. I reset.
Again. Again.
