“Remember to stay square to the puck,” I tell him, hand firm on his shoulder pad. “It’s the puck you’re tracking, not the shooter.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, but his nod is solid. “Got it.”
I clap his back hard enough to rattle his pads, and we trail the team through the tunnel. The familiar smell hits me first—Zamboni exhaust, rubber mats, that particular staleness of arena air. Then the sounds: skates on ice, pucks hitting boards, the murmur of a filling crowd.
The bleachers are already half-full, parents and students and bored townspeople looking for Friday night entertainment. My eyes move on instinct, scanning, searching for?—
There.
Front row, like she’s staking a claim. Red beanie that makesher dark hair look like melted chocolate. Matching scarf that she’s probably had since college because Devin never throws anything away if it still works. She’s mid-conversation with one of the PT interns, hands moving as she talks, and then?—
She turns. Our eyes lock across fifty feet of soon-to-be-battleground, and her face transforms. That smile—Christ, that smile could power the entire rink. My heart doesn’t just leap; it attempts a full triple axel in my chest. My hand moves without permission, waving like some eager kid, and her smile somehow gets wider.
The game’s starting, players crashing onto the ice in controlled chaos, but I risk one more glance at her. That’s when I see him.
Three rows back, positioned perfectly to watch both the ice and me. Mark Bailey. My stomach plummets to somewhere near my ankles.
He hasn’t changed. Same shit-eating grin that got wider every time he threw a dirty hit. Same calculated slouch that saysI’m too cool to carewhile his eyes track everything like a predator. He catches me looking and his grin sharpens, all teeth and malice. That little wave—fingers waggling like we’re old friends instead of what we really were.
Rivals. Enemies, really, though we played for the same team.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms. I’m different now. Better. Evolved. But looking at Bailey makes something primal want to drop gloves and settle every old score. Instead, I force my face into something that might pass for friendly from a distance. Wave back, though my arm feels like it’s made of concrete.
Focus on the game. Don’t let him get in your head.
I take my position beside Jeff, pull arctic air deep into my lungs. Home. This has always been home, even when home was trying to kill me. But the edge won’t leave, heart still racing from something that has nothing to do with game nerves. The oldOliver played for glory, for proof that he deserved to exist in spaces that didn’t want him. This Oliver—I’m here for these kids. For the chance to do something right. For?—
The puck drops.
We win the face-off clean, Eduardo showing the hands that might take him somewhere if he keeps his head on straight. The pass connects, tape to tape, and then Gabe?—
He does exactly what I told him. Stays square, tracks the puck through traffic, makes the save look easy. The counterattack is poetry. Three passes, each one crisp, building speed through neutral ice. The opposing team’s defense scrambles, out of position, and Tommy—quiet, earbud Tommy—snipes it top shelf where mom keeps the cookies.
The arena erupts. Parents on their feet, students pounding the glass, and the pride that floods my chest is nothing like winning the Cup. That was vindication, proving every doubter wrong. This is pure. This is right.
For the first time since my career ended in a pile of broken body parts and shattered dreams, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“Nice adjustment with Gabe,” Jeff shouts over the noise.
I manage something that might be words, might just be grateful sounds. The game flows, and I lose myself in it. Not playing, but something maybe better—teaching. During line changes, I’m right there. “Keep your stick on the ice, Petey.” “Support your defense, don’t leave them hanging.” “Beautiful pass, Eduardo, that’s exactly what we practiced.”
We score again. Then the tide shifts like it always does.
The other team’s coach makes adjustments. Their forecheck gets aggressive, forcing turnovers. Our kids start gripping their sticks too tight, overthinking instead of playing. I pull aside each kid who comes off, quick corrections, gentle encouragements. This is what coaching actually is—not the screaming tyrants from hockey movies, but this. Seeing a kid’sconfidence wobble and knowing exactly what to say to steady it.
I’m so locked in I almost forget Bailey’s there. Almost.
Then the prickle starts at the base of my skull, that prehistoric awareness that saysyou’re being watched. I glance back and there he is, staring straight at me while everyone else watches the play develop. That same predator assessment, like he’s cataloging weaknesses, filing away ammunition for later.
The other team scores. Our section deflates while their fans celebrate. I catch Devin booing with admirable enthusiasm, and despite everything, it makes me want to smile. Quickly I look away from her, not wanting to get distracted.
Easier said than done. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I scrolled five years back through my cloud photos to find the picture of her at that donut shop in Portland. We’d gone there for a game, and she swore their maple bacon donut was the best thing she ever tasted.
So I got out of bed and drove to the twenty-four-hour supermarket to get the ingredients. I’d never made donuts before, but I had the Dutch oven and cooling racks to make it possible. This time, I didn’t need to go through five batches—the second one was the winner.
Dropping off the box of them at Devin’s clinic this morning, you would have thought I brought her the moon. We didn’t have much time to talk, since she had a patient coming in, but her smile kept me going all day long.
The buzzer sounds, bringing me back to the moment. I blink, trying to make sense of the noise filling the rink. The scoreboard draws my gaze. 4-3.
