I try not to sigh, but I can’t help but wonder if this is how my own time here at the Iceguard will be seen. The effort of a guy who no longer has it, made that much more cringe by the fact that he’s trying so damn hard.
Fuck, that was dark. I squeeze my eyes open and shut a few times, trying to keep the low-level panic I feel at bay.
“And we have Roe Monroe joining us,” Coach says, pulling me out of my head and back to the present where he’s wrapping up a post-workout pep talk.
Across from me, a young hotshot—LJ Jameson—blows me a kiss. “I watched you play when I was a kid,” he says with a smirk as Coach ends the meeting.
I roll my eyes. Every minor league team has an LJ, and they all want to make the same damn comment. I wonder how much of my time here will be expected to be spent prepping this kid for the big show, instead of working on my own return.
But then Benji O’Rourke, a big solid defenseman beside me, taps LJ’s thigh with his stick—two quick pops. Fatherly. Benji’s got “team dad” practically stitched into his duffle.
“It’s going to be wild,” Diggs says, all golden retriever energy. If I didn’t know he was the goalie, I’d have guessed it. Diego “Diggs” Martinez is up and down between the Iceguard and the Chicago Knights all the time, and he seems perfectly fine with that arrangement.
“It isn’t going to be wild,” Benji cuts in as Coach walks out. He shoots daggers at Diggs as we start packing up.
Diggs looks from Benji to me. “But you’re Roe Monroe. As in, get in a fight—a row—or a wild night of—“
“Not something I recommend for a career,” I tell him before Benji can smack him with the stick again. LJ’s listening too, I can tell. He’s a hotshot like I was—er,am. Probably could use a real-life lesson in how the bad-boy image only works if you’re winning.
“Sign me up for fun,” I say. “But I keep sober these days,” I add nonchalantly, just in case they heard the rumors, and maybe as a bit of a buffer if they haven’t. By Benji’s reaction, I’m guessing they have. “And I try not to do too much stupid shit either. I’d rather be back on the ice for the Knights than on IR.” I squeeze Diggs’s shoulder lightly, hoping I set some boundaries without coming across as though I’m no fun at all.
“We can still go out, though, right?” he asks, eyes pinging between me and Benji.
I clock Diggs straightway as a guy who lives for the team, the camaraderie.
“I’ll take Roe around town and around The Keep,” Benji says before I can answer. “Let him get settled. We’ll make plans for a team night this weekend.”
“Lame, old man,” LJ says, and I think I’m the old man in this situation, but he winks. So maybe we’re cool.
Since Coach has wrapped up the team meeting, Benji gives me the tour of The Keep. From the upper level, we stop to watch the pre-teens still running drills on the shared ice. I’m guessing they’re a bit younger than Bantam League, but I’m not sure.
There’s one kid, a forward I can tell will be gunning for center when it’s time, who’s flashy—fast, cocky. Typical. But it’s the other kid on the ice who catches my eye. He’s good. Not just talented but technically solid. Disciplined. Polished in a way you don’t see in most kids his age.
“Fox River Falls has a solid kids’ program,” Benji says beside me. “From first skate to Pewee, Bantam, Juniors. Those players are some of our biggest fans. The team encourages us to be involved.”
I nod, turning my attention back to Benji.
“If you’re into mentoring,” he adds with a pointed glance. “The coach and GM would love it. So would the press.”
“Not sure I’m the mentoring type right now.” I laugh. Because Benji can’t be serious. I need to focus on my game and no one else’s.
Benji frowns. “Why not? You’ve got pro stats most players dream of. This town has been in a frenzy since the announcement that you’d be here.”
I bite back the urge to remind him this is temporary. That I’m not joining the team, not really. I’m just passing through. Paying my dues. I’m hopeful I won’t even last the season down here before a call back up, although that’s reaching. My only focus is showing everyone that I’m still the superstar who put all those stats up in the first place. But saying that out loud won’t help.
As we turn away from the ice, I glance back once more at the kid. Confident. Quiet. Controlled. I wonder if he actually enjoys the game, or if he’s already carrying the weight of expectations the way I was at his age. But then he breaks out into a big smile that I can see even from the top of the rink, and I feel my lips wanting to rise in response. Nah. This kid loves the game. His enthusiasm has a purity to it.
Back in the locker room, Benji leaves me to the work of arranging all my new Iceguard gear, and I make the mistake of counting how many hours stand between me and the next practice. I kill some time taping my stick and with a million other tasks that don’t need to be done. My brain hums with static.
Sobriety work 101: distraction, habit, control. I’ll get through it, although the lure of something numbing is a tempting bitch.
Eventually, I head out, but the sound of skates on ice draws me back up to the rink.
The kid who caught my eye earlier is still out there, alone, running drills. No coach. No parent. Just focused repetition.
Memories crawl up my spine—my stepdad’s voice barking orders, the pressure, the endless corrections. But this kid? He’s just doing the work.
And he’s having fun with it.
