He adjusts, tries again. Better. “Like this?”
“Getting there.” I demonstrate once more. “Watch my edges. It’s all about the transition from inside to outside edge.”
For a few minutes, I forget everything else. There’s just the ice, the mechanics of the move, the satisfaction of seeing Carter improve with each attempt. This is one of the many parts of hockey I’ve always loved. The purity of it. The simplicity.
Coach blows his whistle, signaling the start of a scrimmage. My pulse kicks up a notch. This is the real test—game situations, full speed, actual contact. I’m assigned to the white team, Carter on my line.
The puck drops, and instinct takes over. I win the face-off, send it back to our defenseman, then drive toward the red team’s zone. The familiar choreography of a breakout play unfolds—passes crisp, players finding lanes, the rhythm of it beautiful in its complexity.
I call for the puck near the blue line, Carter sending it my way with impressive accuracy. I collect it, head up, assessing options. Wilson’s in net, eyes locked on me through his mask. I know what he’s thinking—that I’m going glove side, high corner, my favorite spot. But I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
I fake the shot, then slide the puck to Carter, cutting toward the net. Perfect setup. He one-times it, but McDavid’s too quick, kicking out a pad to deflect it wide.
“Nice try, rookie,” McDavid says, moving eyes to me, challenging.
The scrimmage intensifies, players settling into the competitive groove that defines our sport. I’m feeling good, confident even, right until Jenkins lines me up along theboards. He’s not going full speed—this is practice, not the playoffs—but it’s enough to trigger the memory.
The white hot pain. The sound. The stillness.
I brace for impact, but at the last second, I pull up, my body betraying me. Jenkins blows past, surprise on his face. The puck, now undefended, is easily collected by the red team. They transition to offense, catching our defense flatfooted. Seconds later, they score.
“What the hell was that, Kingston?” Coach demands as we reset for the next face-off. “Since when do you bail on a play?”
“Won’t happen again,” I mutter, aware of the eyes on me—teammates, coaching staff, all wondering the same thing: Is Brooks Kingston done?
The thought sends a surge of defiance through me. I’m not done. Not by a long shot.
When the puck drops again, I attack with renewed intensity. The next time Jenkins comes at me, I stand my ground, absorbing the hit, using his momentum against him to maintain possession. It hurts—my shoulder—but I don’t show it. Can’t show it.
By the end of practice, I’m exhausted but satisfied. Not my best showing, but a solid return. Coach seems to agree, giving me a nod as we file off the ice. “Good start, Kingston. We’ll get you back to form.”
In the locker room, players are quick to welcome me back officially, with some real ball-busting, not that kid-glove bullshit.
“The King hasn’t lost his touch,” McDavid announces, throwing a sweaty towel at me.
“Except when you skated away like the boards were on fire,” Jenkins chimes in.
“Just didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the rookie,” I shoot back. Never let them see the cracks. Rule number one of professional sports. I continue, serious when I warn, “But you better practice your quick dekes before we play the Blizzards. Number 44 loves his board smashing.”
Traye says, “You know?” He stretches his neck. “Mama always says watch your back.”
Carter approaches me as I’m unlacing my skates. “Thanks for the tips out there,” he says earnestly. “My coach in juniors never broke it down like that.”
I shrug, uncomfortable. “Just basic stuff.”
“Still, it helped.” He hesitates, then adds, “My dad’s a huge fan of yours. Says you’re the kind of player who makes everyone around them better.”
The mention of fathers sends a jolt through me. Mine is about to meet me for dinner, ready with his analysis on the million things I need to do to get back in the game.
“Your dad sounds like a smart guy.” I force a smile. “Keep working on that edge control. You’ve got good instincts.”
Carter beams. His joy makes something twist in my chest. I remember that feeling—playing for the pure love of the game, before it became a business, before it became my father’s vicarious second chance.
After showering and changing, I check my phone. Three texts from Dad, one from Mom, nothing from Sydney. Not that I expected anything. She’s probably in LA by now, dazzling television executives with her talent and that smile that could power the state of Idaho.
I miss her like a physical ache, a constant hollow space in my chest that nothing seems to fill. Some nights I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over her name, but I never press call. What would I say? Nothing has changed that could make things work.
The drive to the restaurant where my parentsare stretches before me, twenty minutes of Idaho landscape and too much time to think. I crank the radio, but every song reminds me of Sydney somehow. Even the weather report makes me change the station—the cheerful delivery reminds me of Sydney.
