Chapter 2
Logan
The blade of my skate bites into fresh ice, and my body remembers before my brain does. Twelve years pro, and that first step still hits me with a rush. The rink smells like home—sweat and that sharp, metallic tang of ice mingling with the earthy notes of damp, worn gear, and that undefinable scent of cold that gets into your bones. I push off hard, feeling my quads as I circle the ice ahead of practice, watching the other guys filter in, some still bleary-eyed from whatever bar they closed down last night.
I circle the rink when I catch Ruzek’s eye. He’s laughing to himself, a smirk spreading across his face as he glances my way.
"What's got you giggling over there, Rosey?" I call out, curious.
“I keep thinking about that chick from Skyline who kept calling you 'Captain'? Even when you were—" he thrusts his hips crudely, "—you know."
I trap the puck he lazily sends over under my stick, flicking it back toward him with a quick snap of my wrists. "Jesus, Rosey. You promised never to bring that up again."
He howls with laughter, nearly losing an edge. "She kept saluting you! Mid-action! 'Yes, Captain! Right there, Captain!'"His impression is high-pitched and ridiculous. "Then her roommate walks in and?—"
The guys laugh, and I laugh with them, because that's what we do. Trade stories about women like hockey cards, keep score in a game that suddenly feels like it's gone into too many overtime periods.
Coach Martinez blows his whistle, and we gather at center ice. I glance at the clock: exactly 10 AM. Martinez is nothing if not punctual.
"Alright, ladies," he barks, though his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. The man can't quite hide when he's in a good mood. "Pair up. Passing drills to start. I want to see some crisp tape-to-tape. None of that garbage from the third period on Tuesday."
I pair with Nichols, our top-line center. He's twenty-four, six years into what promises to be a hall-of-fame career, and still has the enthusiasm of a kid playing a pickup game on a frozen pond.
"How's the knee, Mac?" he asks, sending a pass that lands perfectly on my stick.
"My knee's back in action, thanks to that new treatment. Now if only we could get you to stop making such ridiculous faces when you miss a shot."
We settle into the rhythm of practice—the sharp slice of skates cutting through ice, the hollow clack of stick on puck, the dull thud when a shot hits the boards. These sounds live in my dreams, more familiar than any lover's voice. There's comfort in this routine, in knowing exactly what I'm meant to do and how to do it.
"Heard anything about the school thing next week?" Nichols asks between drills.
"What school thing?"
"That reading program. PR set it up—we're going to some elementary school to read books to kids." He shrugs.
"Shit, is that next week already?" I vaguely remember seeing it on the calendar. Another publicity obligation, smiling for photos while proving hockey players can read.
"Yeah, man. You, me, Kovy, and Schmidty. Bring your best 'Cat in the Hat' voice."
Coach blows the whistle again, splitting us into power play units. I take my position at the point, sliding into the familiar patterns of our setup. My body works on autopilot—get open, find the seam, shoot low for the tip—while my mind drifts.
Schools mean teachers. Teachers mean women who probably have their shit together more than the bar flies and Instagram models in my contact list. Women with actual careers and ambitions beyond getting photographed on the arm of a Chicago Blade.
"McCoy! Wake the fuck up!" coach shouts, and I realize I've missed a pass that's now sliding toward the opposite goal.
"Sorry, Marty." I tap my stick on the ice, signaling I'm back in the game. But my focus keeps slipping, like I've hit a rut in the ice.
After drills, we scrimmage—red jerseys against white. I'm paired with Schneider on defense, working to shut down Nicky’s line. This is where I'm at my best, reading plays before they develop, getting stick on puck to cause a turnover, then making the simple pass to start the breakout. Hockey makes sense. Life off the ice? That's where I keep getting caught flatfooted.
"Yo, Mac," Kovalchuk says during a water break, "we're hitting River North tonight. New club opened last weekend. Owner's a fan, said he'd comp the table."
"Can't," I lie. "Got a thing with my financial advisor."
"At 11 PM on a Thursday?" He snorts, not buying it.
"Tax season, man. Complicated shit."
The truth is I can't stomach another night of pretentious clubs and twenty-something women who laugh too hard at myjokes while sneaking photos for their Insta stories. The cycle used to feel exciting—new city, new face, new bed. Now it just feels like wandering in circles without a destination.
