Finals don’t come around often in semi-pro. Not unless a dozen things line up just right. Injuries avoided. Momentum held. Luck not turning its back on you at the wrong moment.
But now, here we are: two towns over in Duluth, lake wind cutting sharp off Superior, scouts rumored to be in the stands tonight—regional, maybe higher—
And my leg still not right.
I roll my ankle carefully as I walk, testing it the way I have every morning since the last game.
It’s better than it was. That doesn’t mean it’s good.
Out by the auxiliary rink, Emery’s already waiting. She’s layered up in Moose gear with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.She looks calm in that way she always does before something big, no doubt having already thought through every outcome and made peace with them.
“Hey,” she says softly when she sees me, eyes immediately dropping to my gait. “How’s it feeling today?”
I shrug, then regret it when my knee twinges.
“Depends how honest you want me to be.”
We settle onto the mats near the boards, the rink still quiet except for the distant scrape of the Zamboni finishing up. She guides me through stretches slowly, checking in with light touches, careful pressure.
“I don’t think I’m starting,” I say eventually, staring down at my taped knee.
She doesn’t rush to contradict me.
“I know,” she says gently. “Coach mentioned it.”
That shouldn’t sting, but it does anyway.
I swallow it down.
“I hate that it’s this game,” I admit. “If it were any other… I could live with it. But this—” I gesture vaguely toward the rink. “This might be it for some of us. Or the start of something else.”
Her hand stills on my shin. “That doesn’t go away just because you’re not on the ice the whole time.”
“I know.” I exhale. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
She shifts closer, sitting beside me now instead of in front of me, shoulder to shoulder.
“You’re allowed to be disappointed,” she says. “You’re also allowed to protect your body.”
I laugh quietly. “You sound like a brochure.”
We sit there for a moment, listening to the hum of the rink coming to life around us.
“You ever think about what comes after?” she asks.
“All the time,” I answer. “Especially in the off-season.”
She glances at me, curious. “You never really talk about that.”
I hesitate, then shrug again—more carefully this time.
“I do contract electrical work in the summers. Residential, mostly. Some commercial if the timing lines up. It’s… different.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do,” I say after a beat. “I miss the ice, but I like having something that’s mine, and that’s not tied to a scoreboard or a roster.”
She smiles at that.
