Grant
Something is wrong.
I can feel it in my gut as I skate out onto the ice for warm-ups and look up to the row of empty seats behind the glass.
Heather’s seat. April’s seat.
They’re not there.
I tell myself it’s fine. Maybe they’re running late. Maybe April had homework or Heather got held up at work. There are a thousand reasonable explanations for why they’re not here yet.
But that doesn’t stop me from scanning the stands again during my stretches, looking for that familiar smile or April’s enthusiastic waving.
Nothing.
“You good, Parker?” Theo skates past, tapping my pads with his stick.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“You sure? You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re trying to calculate quantum physics in your head.”
“I’m always thinking.”
I fall back into my routine and tap the goal post once, twice, three times, but my mind isn’t on the game. It’s on this morning, when Heather looked so happy and relaxed at breakfast.Everything seemed perfect when she kissed me before leaving with April. So why aren’t they here?
The buzzer sounds for the end of warm-ups, and I skate toward the bench with the rest of the team. As we file into the tunnel, I catch sight of Margo in the hallway. She has her tablet in one hand, a phone cradled against her shoulder, and she’s nodding along to whatever someone is saying while simultaneously typing something.
I almost consider trying to catch her attention to ask her if she knows where Heather and April might be, but there’s no time as I’m swept into the locker room alongside my teammates.
The locker room is the usual controlled chaos before a game. A few guys are making equipment adjustments while Coach Dunaway runs through our last-minute strategy. I go through my own pre-game routine, mechanically checking my pads, adjusting my mask, and visualizing key saves.
But I still have this feeling in the back of my mind that something is wrong, and I can’t fucking shake it.
When we head back out for the national anthem, I look for them again.
Their seats are still empty.
My phone is in my locker, so I can’t even check my messages. I can’t call. I can’t do anything except stand here and pretend everything is normal when every instinct I have is insisting that it’s not.
The puck drops, and I force myself to focus. This is my job. This is what I do. I can worry about Heather and April after the game.
Except I can’t stop the thoughts from creeping in between plays.
What if something happened? What if April got sick? What if there was an accident?
I make a save on autopilot, barely processing the shot before it’s already in my glove.
“Nice one!” Sawyer taps my pads as he skates past.
The first period passes in a blur. We’re up by one, which should make me feel good, but all I can think about is that empty space behind the glass where they should be.
They’re always here. They should be here now.
During the intermission, I don’t even bother going to the locker room right away. Instead, I skate toward the bench where I can see Margo down near the glass, reviewing footage on her tablet.
She looks up as I approach, a little surprised to see me skating over mid-game.
“Grant? Is everything okay?” She glances to where the rest of my teammates are heading for the tunnel, clearly aware we don’t have much time.
