I grabbed the overflowing laundry basket by the door and carried it to the washer. It had been sitting there long enough to become part of the furniture.
As I stuffed in clothes, I muttered, "Pretty sure I’ve been wearing the same three shirts since preseason."
Halfway through, I found a hoodie with Timberline dog hair all over it. I shook my head and smirked. Unofficial uniform.
I hit the start button, and the washer groaned to life. How many times had I used this since moving in? Two? Three? Small win.
Back in the kitchen, I cracked a few eggs into a bowl and grabbed a fork, just like he taught me. Not a whisk. "Use a fork, not a whisk—keeps the texture right." Dad's voice, clear as day.
I added pepper and a little milk and stirred it the way he always showed me. The pan hissed when the eggs hit it.
Leaning back against the counter, I let my eyes drift to the photo again.
He used to know just what to say—back when I was still willing to hear it.
***
I eased into the parking lot, tires crunching against the frost-dusted pavement. The sky was caught in that in-between phase, shifting from gray to pale blue. The building loomed ahead, dark except for the faint glow of the security lights. The place wasquiet. No teammates. No locker room chatter. No music blaring from the locker room. Just the low hum of the refrigeration system under the ice.
Just me and the sound of skate blades scraping the rubber mats.
I stepped onto the ice. The first glide was sharp, effortless. It felt like exhaling.
I took a few laps, slow and even, my breath hanging like fog. No drills yet. Just movement. Just rhythm.
Then I got to work—tight turns, edge drills, corner pickups, quick-release shots from the dot. Reps on reps. Visualizing game setups. Imagining where the pressure would come from, where the puck would go next.
My shoulders started to loosen. My breathing found a rhythm.
I don’t know where this ends.
But I know who I don’t want to be.
Riley’s right. I fight for everyone else.
Time to fight for me.
I skated one last lap, then coasted to a stop at the boards. I leaned on my stick, breath visible in the cold.
Voices echoed in the tunnel—laughter, footsteps, the slap of sticks on concrete. The guys were here.
Usually, I lived for scrimmages. But today, I wanted drills. Reps. Clean mechanics.
I skated off, blades biting at the ice.
I grabbed my water bottle and took a long drink in the locker room. The chatter was picking up—guys trading stories, chirping each other, the usual.
I was retightening my laces when I heard it.
"Let’s see how long this lasts."
Grady’s voice was low, just loud enough to carry. No heat behind it, just doubt. He’d seen guys like me before and already decided how this would go.
Coop heard it too. I saw his shoulders stiffening before he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly like he was trying to diffuse the tension before it had a chance to boil over.
“Just let it go, man,” he muttered, voice low. “No need to get into it.”
I smirked, shoving my gloves on. “Don’t worry about me.” I stretched my arms overhead, rolling out my neck like I was gearing up for battle. “This is going to be fun.”
