Not the terminal. The terminal is as loud as any airport at dawn—wheels on tile, announcements cycling through gates no one's listening to, a child somewhere having feelings about a dropped juice box.
Me. Something in me goes quiet.
And from that quiet comes a sense of lightness. A relief that’s clean and surprising, so complete that my stride almost falters.
My eyes follow briefly a ground crew tech in a neon vest, hood up, hauling suitcases onto the belt loader.
The Olympic truth arrives without fanfare.
Not grief. Not bitterness that engulfed me a month ago. Just the shape of the thing I've been carrying finally settling into something I can see clearly.
I've been carrying the same sentence for months. Pulling it out at dinners, at press scrums, in conversations with my agent:
I can still play.
That’s the line my team manager tells me, hinting at an extension of my contract. That's the line I've been repeating for months. To myself at three in the morning when sleep won't come.
True. My body isn't done. Stats held through December. I could lace up for any team in the league tomorrow and not embarrass myself.
That was never the question.
Sochi was twelve years ago. I was twenty-two and believed that effort was a direct exchange for outcome—put in the work, get the result, simple math. Then, the 2018 NHL ban. The 2022 COVID withdrawal. The 2026 roster that came out and moved on without me.
And I finally realize the dream I'd been chasing belonged to a kid who doesn't exist anymore.
And maybe that's okay. Because that kid never imagined a woman like Jane. Never imagined wanting something morethan the ice. Never imagined choosing.
But I can. And I am.
Standing in the terminal walkway at JFK this Thursday morning, it feels like a valve opened. One I didn't know I'd been holding shut.
What arrives instead is exhale.
The neon man looks up and our eyes meet. I give him a nod with my empty coffee cup. He smiles, waves and carries on.
So do I.
I step away from the window and start walking toward my gate.
I grin as I throw away the cup. For a second, it feels symbolic enough to make me laugh.
Jane slips into my thoughts. I feel like whistling.
I remember her laughter from our goodnight call last night.
Jane was barely holding it together telling me Grace had issued an ultimatum—either close the distance or fund a pair of industrial-grade soundproof headphones for her.
Apparently our calls have been keeping her up.
Jane didn’t sound embarrassed. She sounded… pleased. And laughed louder.
It’s no wonder how easily she dismantled my celibacy rule.
Three years of holding myself in place and calling it discipline. Calling it discernment. Calling it choosing wisely.
Celibacy wasn’t just physical. It was posture. Closed stance. Weight back. Stick down. Play defense. Stay safe.
I didn't decide to change it. She just happened.
