Six months ago, I met Chloe Dawson in Barcelona.
Six months ago, I left her standing under the twinkling lights without an explanation.
And here’s what I know about regret: It’s the one thing you can’t block, can’t check into the boards, can’t shake off, no matter how many laps you skate. It follows you. Stays with you. Whispers in your ear during the third period when you’re already exhausted and the game’s slipping away.
You left her standing there.
You ran.
Coward.
The practice facility is smaller than our usual digs, more utilitarian—one rink, wooden stands that seat maybe a few hundred, Blue Ox banners hanging from the rafters.
We’re here because they’re updating our main arena. Renovations, new sound system, upgraded locker rooms—all the things that make the front office feel like they’re investingin the future. It’s better than driving up to Maple Lake, where the minor league plays, and there’s something almost nostalgic about it. This is the kind of rink where we all started—before the NHL contracts and endorsement deals, when hockey was still just a game.
The Zamboni just finished its rounds, and the ice is perfect. Freshly layered, smooth as glass, reflecting the industrial lights overhead. Smells like rubber and exhaust and that crisp scent of possibility.
Used to be, practice felt like home.
Now it feels like an audition I’m failing in slow motion.
The ice burns my lungs with every breath, but that’s not what’s killing me. It’s the silence. The space my teammates leave around me in drills—like I’m contagious, like whatever’s rotting inside me might spread.
Some might call it a slump.
Coach Jacobsen, Blue Ox’s head coach, blows his whistle—sharp, cutting through the sound of skates and pucks and the low hum of conversation. “Two on one! Blake, Munson—you’re up. Kane, you’re defending.”
Of course I am.
Justin “Blade” Blake is twenty-two and built like he runs on Red Bull and pure confidence. Kid’s got speed I remember having once—before I started to overthink my every move. His blond hair is too long, sticking out from under his helmet, and he’s grinning like this is the best part of his day.
Derek Munson glides up beside him—six feet of lean muscle and overpriced hair product. Even in practice gear, he looks camera-ready. Helmet gleaming, brand-new gloves (who gets new gloves mid-season?), custom skates that probably cost more than my first car—maybe even more than my current car. He skids to a stop, ice spraying across my skates, and smirks.
“Try to keep up, old man.”
I’m twenty-eight.
But in hockey years? I might as well be collecting social security.
They take off. Blake has the puck, Derek skating stride for stride with him, their movements synchronized like they’ve been running this play for years instead of weeks. I backpedal, trying to read their eyes, their shoulders, the angle of Blake’s stick.
My game is off—weight distribution wrong, stick position too high—and I know it even as I’m setting up. My legs feel heavy, reaction time lagging like I’m moving through water.
Blake fakes left.
I bite.
Stupid!
Blake cuts right with that cocky rookie speed, and my skates tangle like I’m back in Peewees, learning to stop. He’s past me before I can recover, puck sliding clean toward Wyatt Marshall in goal.
Wyatt—thirty-one, father of one, goalie with reflexes like a cat and a wife who could hack the Pentagon before breakfast—makes the save. Barely. The puck catches his glove, and he cradles it, then looks at me over his mask.
His brown eyes are concerned. Worried.
Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m a mess.
The coach’s whistle shrieks across the rink, echoing off the boards and wooden stands.
