Hog was the first to move. He lumbered over from his stall, massive frame unfolding like an ancient mountain coming to life. He clapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth.
"'Bout damn time." His voice was weirdly wobbly, like he was fighting off a cold or trying not to swallow his tongue. He cleared his throat and tried again. "'Bout damn time, Vegas."
A few guys offered scattered applause. Kowalczyk called out "Nice" from across the room. Murphy managed a "That's sick, man" without looking up from his skate laces.
Nobody hollered. Nobody was starting a ridiculous celebration chant. Even Pickle—who turned everything into a TikTok-worthy moment—sat on his bench with a weak half-grin on his face.
I tried for damage control. "Don't worry, it's only a short-term upgrade. Remember getting called up to the varsity squad in high school? This is that, except with better catering and health insurance." I dropped my gear bag next to my stall and startedpulling out my practice gear. "And don't touch my shit while I'm gone. I've got everything organized exactly how I like it."
The joke landed with all the grace of a Zamboni on black ice.
Coach Rusk appeared in his office doorway, with a coffee mug in one hand and his backward cap casting shadows on his neck. He chewed his gum methodically.
"Don't forget where you learned to backcheck."
That was the most affection he'd ever shown me. It wasn't a lecture about representing the organization or playing with heart or any other motivational bullshit. Only a reminder that Thunder Bay had taught me something worth knowing.
My throat tightened. "Won't forget, Coach."
He nodded and disappeared back into his office.
Evan was three stalls down, taping his stick. He hadn't looked at me since I'd made my announcement.
Suddenly, he spoke. "You'll crush it." It was flat and professional. He might have been reading stats off a score sheet instead of offering encouragement to someone he'd been sharing a bed with.
I wanted to say something—ask if he was okay, or make another joke and bridge whatever gap had opened up between us. Then, Hog started making weird sniffling noises, and I got distracted.
"You good, man?" I asked.
He waved me off without looking up, fumbling with a roll of tape that kept sticking to his massive fingers. "I'm fine. Just... damn onion bagels, man. They put too much seasoning on everything these days."
Hog hadn't eaten an onion bagel in his life. He was a banana bread purist who treated processed breakfast foods like they were personally offensive.
The silence in the room wasn't cold. It was tentative. Careful. Like they were all bracing for something they didn't want to name.
Like they were bracing for me not to come back.
The realization knocked the air out of my lungs. They weren't celebrating because they didn't think it was an occasion for celebration. They thought it was goodbye.
And maybe it was.
I sat on the bench in front of my stall, and I finally understood why getting the thing I'd always wanted felt less like victory and more like trying to decide if falling off the cliff was worth it.
Back home after practice, the living room looked like a crime scene where the victim was my normal life. My duffel bag lay sprawled half-open on the coffee table, spilling clothes and toiletries across the surface. I'd laid out hockey gear on the couch in precise rows—shoulder pads, elbow pads, shin guards—forming a suit of armor that would either protect me or bury me, depending on how the next two weeks went.
Evan stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me fold and refold the same practice jersey for the third time. His expression was unreadable.
"So, should I label everything in the fridge before I go? Color-code my leftover takeout containers? I know how much you love a good organizational system."
Nothing.
I tried again. "Don't forget to miss me while I'm gone. I mean, who's gonna leave socks in the butter compartment? Who's gonna sing "Rolling in the Deep" in the shower at 7 AM?"
Evan's jaw tightened. "You don't have to pretend this isn't a big deal."
I stopped folding. "It is a big deal, but it's also temporary."
"Right. Temporary. Two weeks. Maybe less."
