Six months since Romania. Five since I started at MIT. Eight since I told my family I was not going pro—back when Wren and I weren’t even speaking, when the bet had just blown up everything, when I didn’t know if I’d ever get her back.
Skates carve the ice in hard, precise arcs. Pucks crack off sticks and boards. Cold air turns to fog with every breath. Once, that sound was everything—oxygen in my lungs, purpose in my blood, the only rhythm that made sense.
Now, it’s just data.
I stand behind the glass with a laptop balanced on the ledge, live metrics streaming across the screen. On the ice, low-profile sensors blink soft green against white skate boots as practice gets underway—Liam driving the pace, Finn cutting sharp across the slot, Dmitri steady and precise on the back end. Adam battles along the boards. Wesley holds the line, timing his pivots.
Behind them, Nate tracks the play in the crease, controlled and unreadable as always.
And I’m not on the ice.
Eight months ago, that would’ve felt like punishment.
Now I know this is exactly where I belong.
On my screen, the rink dissolves into vectors and angles. Player-tracking overlays flicker across the glass—stride length, rotational load, asymmetry ratios updating in real time. The system flags micro-imbalances mid-turn, catches compensation patterns before they become injuries. It’s cleaner than the prototype we built at BU. Faster. More responsive.
MIT’s biomechanics lab helped strip the model down to what actually mattered, pressure-testing every assumption until only the necessary ones survived. What started as a semester project became a framework. What started as me trying to prove I was more than a body became me finally trusting my mind.
Wren stands beside me, radiating calm and certainty. I’ve never met anyone more fully present in her own skin.
Wren.
My Irina.
She watches the ice, the glass, the quiet transformation happening in layers most people wouldn’t even notice.
We’ve been back from Cluj for almost six months now. Back to Boston’s winter, back to MIT’s labs, back to building something that matters more than any highlight reel ever could.
The whistle blows. Players reset. On my screen, the data stabilizes into smooth lines, the noise falling away until all that’s left is rhythm.
Different ice.
Same game.
I just learned how to read it another way.
Liam peels off from the drill and coasts towardthe boards, snow spraying up in a sharp arc as he stops. He reaches out and taps the glass with the butt of his stick, a grin breaking across his face.
“Didn’t think I’d see you on this side of the boards, kid.”
The words land without sting. Eight months ago, they might have. Eight months ago, when I lost the contract, chose MIT over trying with another team, walked away from the path everyone assumed I’d take—including me.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to convince me otherwise. Just asked if I was sure.
I was.
I look up from the screen, return his grin easily. “Someone’s got to make sure you old men stay in one piece.”
“Careful,” Wesley calls as he skates past. “These old guys don’t like being monitored.”
Dmitri snorts at Wesley, adjusting his grip on his stick. “Alaska Bear worries too much,” he says flatly. “Numbers don’t lie.”
Liam glances over his shoulder, laughing. “Hear that? You’re officially the problem now.”
Wesley shakes his head, but he’s smiling too.
Liam turns back, pushing his helmet back just enough to really look at me. Not sizing me up. Not checking for cracks. Not seeing the kid brother who’s supposed to follow in his footsteps without question.
