The arena lights hum. The air inside the rink is crisp and biting, heavy with the chill of the ice. A faint scent of metal from the boards mixes with the lingering trace of Zamboni exhaust that never quite fades. The familiar smell of rubber from pucks and gear blends with the clean, chemical tang of the resurfacer water. There are no boisterous fans in the stands to add to the noise—just the slash of skates across the ice and the clack of sticks.
People find peace in all sorts of places. I find mine here. Morning practice is my reset: it brings everything into order and starts my day off right. As physically exhausting as it is, it’s cathartic—needed, even.
Being on the ice has meant everything to me for as long as I can remember. My parents wanted me to try acting when I was young—they said I had the looks and charm for it—but that life never fit. My happy place has always been the rink. I’m not exactly sure when hockey became such a huge part of me. It feels like it’s always been there, an essential piece of who I am. I’m lucky to do what I love every day—and to get paid well for it.
I’m not the only one who feels that way. Love for the sport is universal on this team. You can’t fake passion for something like this. It has to be real.
We move through drills like we always do. Coach pushes us hard. It’s equal parts fun and torture—the perfect mix. Practice ends with a scrimmage, which is my favorite part. It always feels like it did when I was a kid: competitive, thrilling, and fun. Nothing beats playing against your friends.
Soaked in sweat, I head to the showers thinking about the day ahead. I’m moving Miranda into my house today. After the house-hunting disaster yesterday, I dropped Miranda off at the hotel. She didn’t have the energy to pack and figured today would be better. So today it is.
I laid on the whole “moving in together” thing pretty thick in Hawaii, but I’m still surprised it’s actually happening. It will be good for both of us to have some company. Living alone isn’t as cool as I thought it would be.
I especially think having a roommate will be good for Miranda.
We haven’t spoken about the drama that unfolded at the Oscar party. I’ve kept my word and dropped it. But I can still feel the deeply buried tension she’s hiding. Looking back over the past six months, I can see the cracks in her facade now.
She’s always been so happy and bubbly—full of light and positivity—so much so that it earned her the nicknameSunshine.Yet I realize now that it’s all a cover for something… something big.
She doesn’t let the mask slip often, but when it does, I can see the sadness in her eyes.
Maybe if we lived together and spent more time around each other, she’d eventually feel safe enough to share whatever it is. Because one thing’s for sure—she’s not over it.
If she would just talk to me, it might help. I could carry some of the emotional weight so she doesn’t have to do it all herself. I’m not a therapist, which is probably what she truly needs, but I’m a good listener—and a damn good friend.
And I care about her. Deeply. I want to believe I could help.
“You in for the movie this afternoon?” Finn asks from a couple of lockers down, pulling a clean shirt over his head. “I think everyone’s going. There are cars, and I hear they’re fast.”
“Maybe,” I say, closing my locker. “I’m helping Miranda move. Just depends on how long it takes us.”
He nods. “That’s right. I forgot that was happening today. Do you need help? I can blow off the movie if you need me.”
“Thanks, but no—I think we’re good. She says she doesn’t have a lot of stuff, so we should be fine.” I zip up my duffel bag and throw it over my shoulder.
“Okay, well, if anything changes, let me know. Happy to help.”
“Will do. Thanks, man.”
I turn to leave.
“Try to make it if you can. Bring Miranda,” Finn calls after me.
I raise my arm, give him a thumbs-up, and head out of the locker room, anxious to get to the hotel.
I stare at the three suitcases in front of me. Mouth slightly agape, I process the words Miranda just spoke.
“You can’t be serious?” I ask again.
She tosses her purse over her shoulder and shrugs. “They’re big suitcases, Miles.”
“But there are only three of them. How can this be everything you own? Do you have a storage unit somewhere that we need to clean out? Is Anna storing some of your boxes?”
“No. As I said, this is it.”
I wave my hand out in front of me, indicating the trio of suitcases that is stirring all sorts of emotions within me, and not good ones. “This is everything you own. Right here? In these three suitcases. There’s seriously no storage unit for your things back in LA?”
She cocks her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you being so weird? I told you there wasn’t a lot to move.” She motions toward the suitcases. “This is not new information. I don’t understand why you’re freaking out. Can we just go?”
