The windshield wipers of my SUV are fighting a losing war against the Seattle downpour as I skid into the empty parking lot of the practice facility. I slam it into park right next to Tanner’s car.
I’m fixing this.
I burst out of the truck, ignoring the rain soaking through my hoodie for the second time tonight, and sprint for the side entrance. I key in my code—beep-beep-click—and yank the heavy metal door open.
It’s midnight. The lobby is dark, lit only by the green glow of the exit signs and the hum of the vending machines. Usually, this place is full of noise, shouting, laughter, bags thumping against walls. Tonight, the silence is heavy.
I push through the double doors leading to Rink A. I hear the sound right away.
Shhh-chk.
Scrape.
Shhh-chk.
It’s the distinct, rhythmic sound of steel blades carving into ice.
It’s colder in here than outside, the familiar, comfortable scents of recycled air, rubber mats, and Zamboni exhaust mingling together.
I walk to the glass, staying in the shadows.
Tanner’s in the far crease, doing technical edge work. Butterfly slides. T-pushes. Over and over, he repeats the series of movements:
Push. Slide. Stop. Reset.Push. Slide. Stop. Reset.
He’s moving like a machine: crisp, efficient, and utterly soulless. He’s not training; he’s punishing himself. I know that look. I know exactly what he’s doing because I’ve done it a thousand times. He’s trying to turn off his brain. He’s trying to work through his confusing emotions using the physics of his skate blades and the biology of exhaustion.
His jersey is soaked through, and he’s not wearing his chest protector, so it clings to his chest. Even from here, I can see how heavily he’s breathing. He’s been here for hours. While I was sitting in my condo feeling sorry for myself, he was here, grinding himself into dust.
A jagged ache rips through my chest that has nothing to do with my surgically repaired pectoral muscle.
I step into the players’ bench and climb over the boards, my sneakers landing on the rubber matting with a heavy thud.
“You’re gonna grind your steel down to nothing, Sinc!” I call out, my voice echoing in the cavernous rink.
Tanner freezes mid-slide. He stands up slowly, rotating his hips to face me.
His mask is sitting on the top of the net. His short blond hair is wet with sweat, plastered to his forehead.
He doesn’t offer me a smile. He doesn’t look relieved to see me. He looks more like a fortress with the drawbridge pulled up. His blue eyes are flat, analyzing me like I’m an opposing forward he needs to read.
“If you’re here to tell me to take the offer, don’t bother,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I made my choice. I’m staying here.”
He thinks I’m here to lecture him and finish the job I started in my kitchen: to push him away for his own good.
“I know,” I call back. “Carson told me.”
Tanner stiffens. He waits, clearly expecting me to tell him he’s being an idiot. That he needs to take the trade offer and go to Minnesota.
I don’t. Instead, I step off the rubber matting.
My sneaker hits the ice.
It’s a stupid, dangerous thing to do. I’m recovering from major surgery, and sneakers aren’t exactly made for walking on ice. I slip immediately, my feet scrambling for purchase, my good arm windmilling to keep my balance. A bolt of pain shoots through my shoulder as I jar it.
“Louis!” Tanner barks.
He lunges toward me, his robot armor shattering as his instincts take over.
