It gives me a lot of open space for some introspection, so I slap on my skates early and hit the ice in simple training gear. There’s a buzz of people in the arena—workers mostly—but they aren’t on the ice or even close to it.
I think about the NAPH. I think about my dreams, my goals.
I can still play pro-level hockey, I’ve proven that now. But I also know the physical toll it takes—which is on me. I should have taken care of myself when my knee was injured instead of trying to play through it or pretend the injury didn’t exist.
But those are the choices of past years, and I can’t spend my life dwelling on them. It only solidifies the truth I’ve known since I cleared my head in rehab.
There has to be something other than hockey in my future. Hockey is a dream that sustained me for a good while, but now? Now there has to be a new dream.
There’s the other truth too. Getting called up and showing I can be here is amazing. I’m grateful to be able to prove myself so early. But the thrill of calling myself a hockey player is a bit hollow these days.
It’s not just that I need to be more than a hockey player for all the practical reasons, like my age and my knee. It’s that I want to be more.
In my head, in all of these endless thoughts and loops I skate on the ice, is Thatcher.
I fly down the ice, picking up incredible speed, and with the ice to myself I bank a curve to do it again. It’s flying, of a sort. Maybe I’m not falling for Gabe as much as he makes me feel like I can fly. Soar.
The word falling suggests the idea of landing somewhere. But flying is infinite.
I don’t get out of my head until they’re pulling the nets onto the ice and Dom, the hotshot kid of all people, skates up to me.
“Wanna go?” he asks, dropping the pucks and motioning to the net.
“Sure.”
We set up a quick assist drill—I assist, and he attacks the goal. Others join us on the ice and the pucks now are sent back to me, giving us an endless loop to play with.
We change positions, working on precision shots, and Dom gives me a grin as I get close enough for the kind of casual conversation early warmups allow.
“Looked like you were working through something earlier,” he says, lining up the shot.
“Yeah, kinda was.”
He sends the puck to the upper left corner in a clean shot that breezes the bar but doesn’t touch it.
“You’ve played great, man. Proud to have you here.” Dom is all charm and seriousness, and his eyes are settled. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen so far.
I send him a smirk. “It actually wasn’t all about hockey.”
He grins back.
“There are thoughts that aren’t about hockey?” he says, and I laugh back. Kid’s got something, that’s for sure. He’s more than attitude and power plays.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Nah, man.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and he sort of gives a shrug as if to emphasize he was joking before. “You got something more than hockey?” he asks. “That’s good. Hold the fuck on to that.”
I don’t say anything, but his words make me wonder if hockey is all he thinks he has, or could have. That’s a dangerous headspace to be in. I steal the puck from him as our goalie steps in front of the net, upping the challenge of the warmup.
Without thinking, I aim for the five-hole with a wrist shot.
Dom chuckles. “Always the five-hole for Roe Monroe.” I raise my eyebrows, and he gives me a look. “I watched you play when I was coming up, man.”
I shrug and force myself to ignore the invitation to count the years between us. “Favorite shot. Not as easy to defend when the goalie moves laterally, and a proven winner with a slap shot or wrist shot.” Those have always been in my wheelhouse.
Dom rests on his stick. “I know. I thought of how to play against you before I ever played with you, Monroe. I’ve seen the film.” He gives me a grin that I bet has gotten him in trouble a time or two.
“So, you’re obsessed with me,” I tease. “Makes sense now.”
