Her voice has gone faint, heavy with exhaustion.
“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper. “Rest now, Haisley.”
There’s a quiet beat before she answers, soft and sure. “I’ll be here waiting for you.”
The road back to the cabin winds through snow-covered trees, the afternoon sky all clear and bright. My hands grip the steering wheel, but my mind is still stuck on Haisley. Especially on how she tries to downplay how sick she is.
Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake the tension clinging to me. I need something to clear my head. Something fun that makes me feel anything else than this constant worry I carry around these days.
And like the universe heard my plea, my gaze lands on the perfect distraction.Well, look at that.
A group of kids in mismatched gear are playing hockey on a frozen pond by the road. It’s not an organized game or anything fancy; piles of snow mark the goals with no other lines on the ice. Still, they’re lost in the enjoyment of the game, calling out to each other and laughing as they play.
Before I can overthink it, I pull over to the side of the road and kill the engine. I grab my jacket from the passenger seat as I hop out.
The kids notice me right away. A couple of them slow down, watching me with cautious curiosity. A lanky kid with a worn-out beanie sticking out from under his helmet says, “How can we help you, sir?”
“I was wondering if you needed one more player.”
I always keep a bag of my gear in the truck so I can play whenever it suits my mood.
“Youwanna play?” he skeptically asks.
“That okay with you?”
The kids exchange looks. “Sure, I guess,” their leader says. “We could use another guy. Are you any good?”
“I can keep up.”
“Let’s see it then.”
I sit on the snowy bank and lace up my skates while they keep playing. The ice is rough in spots and a little wonky, but that’s part of the charm of pond hockey. There’s no Zambonis or boards, only the game in its purest form.
When I step onto the ice, my body responds instinctively. My muscles remember the feeling of playing outdoor hockey. It’s different from an indoor rink, colder and wilder, but still has that homey feeling as any ice does.
“Here,” one of the kids calls as she flips the puck toward me. I catch it on my stick and take off.
And the game is on.
It’s fast and messy, but that makes it fun. The kids are scrappy and determined, some better than others, but all have that very innocent love for the sport that reminds me of myself at their age. This is exactly what I needed: a familiar environment calming the restlessness inside me.
After I score my first goal, the same lanky kid skates beside me. He studies me, his breath visible in the frigid air. “You play somewhere?”
“Something like that.”
The smallest of the boys with freckles mumbles something.Even if I didn’t hear what was said, I can see the moment the recognition clicks on the lanky kid’s face.
“Are you sure?”
Freckles rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure. I saw him on TV the other day.”
Another kid with blonde hair skates over, squinting at me. Then his jaw drops. “Holy shit. You're Rasmus Westerholm of the Peacocks.”
The others turn, their heads snapping toward me.
“No way.”
“Are you serious?”
