Greg barely looks up from his cleaning cart, just gives me a small nod. He's used to my late-night visits by now, understands sometimes a player just needs ice time to think.
The locker room feels different at night—like the ghosts of past games linger in here, both the celebrations and the anger that sometimes follows bad games. My footsteps echo as I head to my stall, the familiar motions of lacing up my skates providing some small comfort. Every movement is precise and controlled. As fucking usual, the control is only an illusion though.
The ice gleams under the dimmed lights as I step out. Just me and this sheet of ice that's been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Nick and my dad taught me on our backyard rink and our small-town arena, but ice is ice. It doesn't matter where you are, or what's surrounding it, or even what's going on in my head. The sound of ice meeting metal when my skate blades make contact is always the same. It's like the soundtrack of my life.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, Nick," I mutter under my breath. "What am I supposed to do?"
My skates cut clean lines across the fresh ice as I start moving. No real pattern, just feeling the edge of my blades, the familiar resistance. The thing about my brother was that even though he was young when he died, he was wise as hell. My mom used to say he was an old soul. He never ran from anything, even when he was scared. And he never tried to be anyone other than who he was.
"You can't control everything, Ry,"I can almost hear his voice."Sometimes you have to let go."
A sound that's half laugh, half sob escapes me as I pick up speed. The cold air feels good in my lungs.
"Bit late for practice, isn't it?"
I nearly wipe out at Carson's voice. He's standing at the boards, coffee mug in his hand, watching me.
"Holy shit, you scared me," I say, forcing out a laugh.
"Mind if I join you for a bit?" he says with a wry smile.
"Sure, of course," I say. "Guess I don't have a monopoly on being unable to sleep."
"Give me a minute," Carson says, disappearing into the equipment room. He returns with a pair of well-worn CCMs.
I watch as he laces up with practiced efficiency. Not the precise movements of a pro, but the muscle memory is there.
"Played Division III in college," he offers, catching my look as he steps onto the ice. "Never good enough for the show, but..." He takes a few experimental strides. "Some things you don't forget."
We skate in lazy circles for a while, the only sound is our skate blades cutting through fresh ice. It should feel strange - the GM joining my middle-of-the-night crisis session - but somehow it doesn't. I appreciate that he doesn't seem compelled to makesmall talk. I guess the fact that we're both here in the middle of the damn night means we're past that?
"Used to do this in college," Carson says after a few laps. "Late nights when my head got too loud." He trails off, doing a passable backward crossover. "Makes it easier to think. Or maybe to stop thinking."
I catch the puck he slides my way, muscle memory taking over. We pass it back and forth, nothing fancy, just the hypnotic rhythm of tape to tape.
"You know," Carson says after a few quiet passes, "I used to think doing what was expected was the same as doing what was right. Be the good son, follow the expected path: college hockey, business degree, suitable marriage..." He trails off, his smile turning wistful. "Turns out there's a difference between living your life and going through the motions."
My stick stills on the ice as I look up at him.Where is he going with this?
"All I'm saying is," he sends another puck my way, "sometimes we spend so much time being who everyone needs us to be, we forget to figure out who we actually are."
Those words hit close to home. Isn't that what I've been doing for my whole damn life? Being the perfect captain, the responsible son, the steady teammate... But where has it gotten me?
"It's not that simple," I manage.
"No, it's not," he agrees quietly. "But you know what's harder? Spending the rest of your life wondering what might have been."
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. For just a second, there's a shadow of old pain in his eyes, but he blinks and it's gone.
"Hockey careers end, Rylan," he continues softly. "Whether it's in two years or ten, someday you'll take those skates off forthe last time. But living authentically? To be truly happy? That shit lasts forever."
The puck slides between us.
"I saw what happened to Jamie in Florida," I say finally. "The media circus, the pressure..."
"And you think that was worse than living a lie?" His voice is gentle but pointed. "Trust me, Rylan. No amount of professional success makes up for denying who you really are."
The edge in his voice makes me wonder what he's not saying, but he continues.
