"Ah. That kind. You know what I did my first home opener here in Thunder Bay? Tripped over the bench door. Caught my skate on the lip and went down like a bag of cement in front of ten thousand people."
I groaned. "That's not the same."
"Not exactly. What can be is that I got back up. Played my next shift. Scored, actually." He paused. “Disappearing would’ve been worse.”
I leaned against the counter.
"Playing it safe isn’t what keeps you in Chicago, Heath. Showing up when things get messy is."
I didn't push back.
"You don't need to be perfect," Pickle added. "You just need to still be standing when the whistle blows."
I exhaled.
We talked for another few minutes. Pickle circled back to trademark Storm chaos. Hog's scarf caused a minor locker room battle, and Biscuit was campaigning to be named "Most Valuable Sleeper."
When we hung up, I wasn't as tense, but I was still awake.
I opened my laptop and streamedDancing with the Stars, volume low, like it was something somebody might catch me doing. I told myself I'd watch one routine. I watched three. There was something about the contestants who weren't naturals and how they kept going back out there anyway.
Sitting in my apartment wasn't helping. It only gave my brain more thought space to spiral.
Jacket. Keys. Wallet.
I didn't decide to go out. I decided not to stay still.
Chicago at night was busier than Thunder Bay. Sound came from everywhere: bass thudding from a car two blocks over and the rattle and hum of the L.
I walked without a destination in mind. Hands in my jacket pockets and breath fogging in air that bit without freezing. The cold helped. Sharp and clarifying.
I passed a corner store still lit, amber light spilling onto the pavement. Next was a restaurant with chairs stacked on tables and kitchen lights bleeding through the front window.
Everything closed or closing. The city kept going anyway. Back in Rhinelander, you knew when a street was done for the night. In Chicago, I couldn't tell.
Three blocks later, I found the bar, the Northbound.
I'd been here twice since the move last spring: once alone and once with a couple of guys from the team who'd wanted somewhere low-key after practice. It wasn't a hockey bar or a tourist destination. It was a neighborhood spot with decent lighting.
I pushed through the door.
Warmth hit first. The air was thick with bodies and beer. Glasses clinked, and someone laughed near the dartboard. The bartender glanced up and nodded.
I nodded back and slid onto a stool at the bar's end.
"Usual?" I'd only been there twice, and he already knew.
"Yeah. Thanks."
He turned and reached for a beer bottle. I flattened a hand on the bar top—old wood, slightly tacky—and let the noise settle around me.
On the far wall, the bar had an oversized aquarium. When I came with the guys, one joked the resident Oscar was a piranha. I knew better.
The tank was four feet long with that one big fish. Iridescent orange gleamed when the light hit it right. When I'd sat down,the Oscar had drifted to my end of the tank and stayed there, hanging in the water, watching me with frank attention that would've made me nervous in a person.
Wood panels beneath the tank were open. Equipment exposed. Tubing disconnected. Someone's hands moving inside.
I sipped my beer and watched.
