Then it’s my turn. I find the edge of the table with my hand, fingers curling tightly around the wood. It’s smooth beneath my palm and somewhat comforting in a way most things aren’t anymore.
“Thanks for being here and giving me a chance to heal before speaking to you,” I start, my voice wavering. “It’s meant a lot to get all the support while in recovery.”
I pause, drawing in a steadying breath, willing the following words not to stick in my throat. “I’m officially announcing my retirement from professional hockey.”
A few flashes pop following my statement, bursts of white slashing behind my sunglasses. The noise ricochets around the room before dropping into a heavy silence.
Clearing my throat, I continue, monotone. “I didn’t come to this decision lightly, but the truth is that my body made it.” My hand presses harder into the table, knuckles probably turning white. “After the brutal hit in December, I sustained injuries that changed the trajectory of my life. Since losing most of my vision, I’ve also lost my ability to play the game I’ve loved since I was a kid. However, I haven’t lost who I am.”
My throat tightens. I blink the wetness away, but don’t lift my head and keep talking.
“I first found hockey thanks to my uncle Jake. I was three the first time I stepped on ice, wearing skates that were too big on my feet. I fell ten times that day and cried on the snowbank forminutes after. I really thought I hated hockey.” I chuckle at the memory, others joining me. “But I didn’t. Turns out I loved the feeling of the cold in my lungs and the scrape of blades underneath me. The speed, the clarity, the noise; everything. I loved how the game made sense when nothing else did, including my home life.”
“I played through school and was drafted by the Woodpeckers at eighteen. Suddenly, I had something I earned on my own—a cubby with my name on it and a team of brothers that didn’t care where I came from or who my father was. The organization gave me a home and a family.” I pause, smiling sadly. “If I’m being honest, this isn’t how I thought it would end.”
Another pause. My fingers press harder into the edge of the wood. “I still count myself lucky to have played and to have worn the red and black jersey.” I lift my hand to my chest, just briefly, to feel the thump of my own heartbeat. Proof that I’m still here. “Sometimes, I wake up thinking I’m late for the morning skate, dreaming I can see the ice in front of me. For a second, I feel like myself again.
“I’m still me, only reshaped and learning to live in this new reality. Hockey hasn’t left me. It’s a part of my blood and always will be.” I let out a deep breath. “So maybe I won’t wear the Woodpeckers jersey again, but I’ll find a way to stay in the game. Coaching, mentoring, something. I want to be the person I needed when I was that scared kid growing up.”
My voice dips lower, rough but steady. “To the fans, to the Woodpeckers management, to my teammates, to the people who showed up today—thank you. You made this sport more than just a game to me. You gave me a reason to fight for every second on the ice. I’ll carry you in my heart forever.”
For a moment, the room stays still, the air heavy with flashes and the faint whirr of cameras. “Thank you,” I get out one more time, my eyes filling with tears.
“Thank you for joining us. The press conference is now over,” Mr. Montrose concludes.
He touches my arm, a silent signal of support. No questions. No more statements. Just the anticlimactic end of a chapter I never wanted to close.
42
IVY
MARCH 20
The spacious gym at the Olympic & Paralympic Training Center in Lake Placid is packed with athletes and their support staff. Every rack, treadmill, and mat has been claimed. Bass-heavy background music thuds low through the speakers, matching the rhythm of my breathing.
I’m locked into my final round of exercises, and every cell in me screams for rest. Sweat trickles down my back in rivulets and my quads feel like they’ve been lit on fire from inside. My hands slip against the handles even though I’ve wrapped them tightly. But I won't stop. Each rep builds toward the last event of the Circuit this weekend. This is my last heavy gym session before then, and I want to leave here feeling proud of myself.
“Last set, Bubbles!” Dean calls out from the treadmill row, his tone sing-song. “You can do it!”
I flash a grin. “Watch and learn, little brother.”
My legs are burning even more than a moment ago, but I keep shoving until the sled slams home with a satisfying clank that echoes across the room.
“You’re dialed in,” Max comments without looking up from his exercise.
“That’s the point,” I say, mopping sweat from my face with a towel. “If I want third overall, there’s no room for anything less.”
I’m sitting fourth in the current standings with a shot at climbing to third place if Sunday goes my way and Mira from Finland is slower than me. Getting to the overall podium on my second season would be a dream come true. But if the race in Finland taught me anything, it’s that nothing is guaranteed.
Kayla slips off the stationary bike, cheeks flushed pink. She’s been spinning for nearly an hour, laser-focused in her exercise. “You push like that, and the ice won’t know what hit it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll save the carnage for Sunday.” I press a hand to my chest. “I cross my heart.”
Dean snorts from where he’s wiping down the treadmill seat, his smile wide enough to split his face. “Better yet—icecross my heart. Get it?”
I groan and drag the towel over my face once more. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibleandhilarious,” he shoots back, proud of himself.
