I push the thought away for now. Enough of that. Game day matters. Everything else is noise.
What went down last night, or just moments ago in the elevator, gets wiped. My head resets. My pulse evens out.
If I am at the rink by nine, I’m good. Ice under my feet, my team, and the win are the constants in my life. Everything else is optional.
The ride is short. Traffic is low. I drink black coffee and let the morning light carve the edges off whatever softness last night tried to leave on me. By the time we pull into the arena lot, I am all blade again.
Inside, the rink smells like cold metal, ambition, and strength. Morning skate started at eight-thirty for the rookies, nine for the rest of us. I lace up without thinking. Tape, pads, skates, in the order my body recognizes.
The ice hits beneath me, and everything clicks into place. Fast laps. Passing drills. Edge work that wakes every muscle. Coaches watch. Teammates grunt. Steam lifts off shoulders. I do not speak unless I must. My mind narrows into a single line of sight.
This is the part of the day when nothing can touch me. Not last night. Not Sofie. Not Russia. Not even New York.
At ten-fifteen, we come off the ice. Treatments follow. Trainers stretch me out while arguing about fantasy football. Faulker’s next to me getting cupped. Moretti is getting his ankles taped. Hank complains about sleeping on his shoulder wrong again. I get my wrists iced, my quad scraped, then released.
By eleven, I am changed and headed to Sterling’s ride, even though he’s shacking up with Pembrooke. A few of us are still riding together after practice.Routine. Koa and Moretti have both moved out, but typically ride too. But not today.
“You get lost last night?” Sterling asks as he slides into the passenger seat next to his driver, Joel.
“Got something,” I lean back and close my eyes.
Faulker and our newest housemate, Hank Marshall, laugh. I’m not sure why it’s funny, but they’re having a good time, so whatever…
The Puck Pad is only fifteen minutes away. Home base. Locker room number two. Sanctuary disguised as a house. The whole time, Sterling talks about the house he’s looking at for him and Noelle, his sisters, and his mom. He’s way too high-energy for me right now, but it’s good for him. I’m happy for him.
We arrive to find Paul Bronski standing in the living room, holding a spatula in full House Dad mode. “Finally. I thought you’d all died in traffic, and I was going to have to lace up tonight.”
He’s a trip, I think, as I take off my shoes, and he walks back into the kitchen.
Hank barrels in behind me, tripping over a box he forgot to unpack last week when he moved in. “It is not our fault. Traffic lights hate us.”
Paul calls back, “Everything hates you. Lunch in ten.”
To that, I can’t help but chuckle.
The house is loud in the way only teammates can be loud. Comfortable, familiar noise. Lunch is simple. Chicken, rice, vegetables, and protein shakes. The holy trinity.
We eat while the TV plays highlights, which they talk over and joke about. I’m in the zone, learning the players, planning my defense. Hank keeps asking if we think the crowd will be vicious tonight. Faulker keeps telling him to stop seeking validation. Paul? It’s clear he’s reliving his days. Me? I want to sit and watch them all with him, because what he sees comes with years of wisdom, and straight truth; he’s a damn good man. I just can’t now, it’s not how I roll. I zone them out.
The afternoon nap window opens. Thirty-five minutes. Not one more. Not one less.
I stretch. I lie back. I let my pulse settle.
But right when sleep pulls at me, an image slips in. Sofie, rolling her eyes in that elevator, acting like she is untouchable, like she’s not interested, and it’s in the same way the others did way back then.
I exhale, annoyed at myself. I shove the thought away.
Five-thirty will come fast, and when it does, the version of me that steps back into the arena is the one built to tear teams apart, not the one lying here thinking of her.
New York tonight.
The crowd will be loud. The stakes will be high.
And I will skate like I was born for the noise.
The pregame meal is set out in the players’ lounge. Grilled chicken, pasta, steamed vegetables, rice, food that fuels but never excites. Half the guys claim they are too keyed up to eat, then inhale two plates anyway. Me? I eat.
Most of the team is on their phones, heads bent over screens, the glow lighting up their faces. That is when the noise starts.
