It happens by accident.Or maybe not.Maybe the universe is nudging me like it’s been trying to do for months.
One afternoon after a game, Coach mentions they got a request from the downtown shelter for some gear.It’s the kind of thing that usually goes straight to PR to spin into a feel-good segment.This time, I catch it before it gets there.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
Coach glances up.“You sure?”
“Yeah.Just… don’t bring a camera crew.”
His eyes linger on my face, something like approval softening his usual gruffness.“All right, Carson.I’ll tell ’em it’s off the books.”
I drive over after dark with a couple of boxes in the back of my truck.Hood up, hat low, no team jacket.Just sweats and an old coat that smells faintly like the barn.
A woman at the desk recognizes me anyway, but she doesn’t make a thing of it.Just gives a small smile, eyes tired but kind.
“You’re taller in person,” she observes.
“People keep saying that,” I laugh.
We unload together.Gloves, hats, socks, and winter jackets.There’s a kid sitting in the corner with a battered hockey stick, watching a muted game on the old TV mounted to the wall.He doesn’t realize who I am until I’m standing right beside him.
His eyes go wide.“You’re...”
“Yeah,” I say quietly.“You play?”
He shrugs, like he doesn’t want to care, like caring hurts.“When I can.”
We talk for ten minutes about stickhandling and edge work, about how to get more power out of a shot even when the stick you’re using is half-splintered and three inches too short.
I show him how to re-tape the blade.He shows me the scar on his chin from his first fall on the ice.
On my way out, the woman at the desk touches my sleeve.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “we see more of who people are in places like this than on TV.”
I don’t know what to do with that.So I nod, say thank you, and leave.When I get to my truck, something in me settles.I call my financial planner and make a few requests, a few changes.
A week later, I’m at a rural free clinic day out near Hawthorne Ridge, the kind Tessa volunteers for when she can.They needed extra unskilled hands to carry supplies, set up stalls, and keep the kids occupied while their parents talked to the vet.
I show up without telling anyone I’m coming.For a few hours, I’m not Captain Carson.I’m just Nate, the guy holding the back end of a wary dog while he gets a shot or distracting a kid with questions about their favourite animal so they don’t freak out when the needle appears.
One of the vets, Dr.King, who I know works with Tessa, watches me for a minute and then says, “She’d be proud of you, you know.”
I swallow hard.“I don’t know about that.”
“You’re here aren’t you?”he shrugs.“You’re trying.That counts for something.”
The letters start because I can’t keep it all in my head anymore without something cracking.
It’s late, the house is asleep, and the only light is coming from over the kitchen sink.My mind is too restless for sleep, and my brain won’t shut up.I find myself at the table with a pen and a stack of yellow notepads that my mom keeps for grocery lists.
I stare at the blank paper until my throat aches.
Then I write:
Tess,
You once told me I talk around the hard things until you pull them out of me.
