Oliver makes a noise that’s half squeak, half dinosaur. I make it back at them because I’m a grown man with a mortgage and no shame. Riley snorts. “You two have a language now,” she says. “Should I be worried?”
“Only if it turns into a playbook,” I say, grabbing my bag—heavy, familiar, a different kind of weight than the eight pounds asleep on Riley’s chest two minutes ago. I shoulder it, glance back one more time, because leaving this room feels like skating backward—doable, but requiring attention.
“Jason,” she says, and I turn. She lifts Oliver’s hand with two fingers, a wave. It’s ridiculous how much I need that. “Go score a goal,” she adds, grinning. “Or at least pretend you’re trying.”
“Wow,” I say, wounded. “The disrespect.” I bend, kiss the top of the tiny cap, then Riley’s mouth, quick and careful. “Text me if you need anything. Or if you just want to send me a photo of that face.”
She tips her chin at the door. “Go before you’re late enough to get fined and I have to ice you myself.”
I step into the hallway, bounce once on my heels to shift my brain from bottle to blue line. The door clicks. I take three steps, stop, come back, and grab my stick from where it’s leaned, patient and accusing, against the wall.
Riley’s laugh does the thing to my ribs that a good stretch does to hamstrings. “Almost forgot your sword, Sir Knight.”
“Would’ve been a bold new strategy,” I say, tapping the butt end twice on the floor. I kiss her temple again for luck—ours, not the game’s—and this time I make it all the way to the elevator without turning around.
New normal: chaos and grace in alternating shifts. I carry both down to the car and let them ride shotgun next to the stick I almost left behind.
The rink hits me in layers—cold that bites the sweat right off my neck, rubber mat thud under my blades, that familiar cathedral hum of compressors and bad arena coffee. Locker room chatter ricochets off cinderblock like pucks off end boards.
“Look who slept three consecutive minutes,” Moose chirps from two stalls down, tape between his teeth, eyebrows doing a dance that would get him benched in most countries.
“Three and a half,” I say, sitting to lace. “I’m elite now.”
“You smell like formula,” Rookie offers, and then looks like he wants to apologize for experiencing oxygen.
“Compliment,” I tell him. “That’s what winning smells like.”
He grins, relieved. Somewhere behind me a stick box rattles. Cully appears, already suited, and drops a shaft across my knees. The blade’s dressed neat as church clothes. “Pre-taped,” he says. “Don’t say I never cradle you.”
“You’re a saint,” I tell him, and I mean it. He shrugs it off with a muttered “shut up, Dad,” that somehow lands like a blessing.
Pads on. Helmet. Glide to the tunnel. The first step onto clean ice still hits like a reset button, the whole sheet bright and empty and full of promise. I push off and my legs remind me it’sbeen a night. Quads bark. Ankles negotiate. I circle once, twice, lungs finding a rhythm that isn’t a lullaby.
“Edgework!” Coach barks, clapping like he’s summoning birds. Whistle. We drop into C-cuts and tight turns, pylons blooming like obstacles to justify our salaries. My technique is there; my pop is…muffled. I feel every two a.m. feed like a weight vest. Not bad. Just present.
Moose coasts by and taps my shin. “You’re good, Dad,” he says, not a chirp this time. Something soft threaded through the slap of his stick. It lands in a part of me that isn’t all cartilage and ego.
“Feet!” Coach yells, and I give him feet. Crossovers clean, hands quiet, shoulders over knees. The ice wakes muscle memory; performance peels off the night and hangs it on the glass. By the first shooting drill, the puck starts coming off my blade the way it’s supposed to—no fight, just flight. Top right clacks. The sound is church.
Between reps, my head does what it always did—catalogue, adjust, sharpen. Only now every list ends with the same image: Riley in the doorway, milk-stained tee, our kid’s fist curling against her collarbone like punctuation. The thought is a compass, not a distraction. Every time I touch the boards, I find the line that points home and it steadies everything else.
We run situational entries. Two-on-ones. Net-front chaos. Rookie tries to get cute backhand, I shoulder him just enough to teach love. He laughs, pops back up. “Coach says you have dad strength now,” he pants.
“Coach should try a 3 a.m. diaper,” I say, catching a rim and snapping it to the slot. Moose buries. He points at me like we planned it. We didn’t. Sometimes you don’t plan and it still lines up.
Whistle. Coach skates over, eyes narrowed the way they get when he’s deciding whether to push or pocket the win. “Legs heavy?”
“Little,” I admit. No excuse in it.
“Head?” he asks.
“Clear,” I say, and I don’t realize how true it is until the word’s out. He grunts, which in Coach is affection. “Good,” he says. “Skate your minutes. Skate home.”
We finish with sprints. Last lap, I open up, stride long, lungs hot. At the goal line I lean on my stick and let the burn roll through me and out. Across the glass, a kid in a too-big jersey presses his hands to the pane and mouthshi. I lift my chin at him, automatic. I picture a smaller hand, newer, learning how to wave.
Heavy legs. Clear head. I step off the ice feeling more like a player than a storyline and more like a man than a logo. I’ll take that trade every time.
Steam ghosts off the showers; the locker room smells like eucalyptus and victory we haven’t earned yet. I towel my hair into something resembling obedience when Coach ducks into the aisle, clipboard under his arm, mouth set in a line that means logistics.
