He walked into the empty locker room, clocking the unzipped gear bags and pads thrown everywhere like abandoned armor. His nameplate was still bolted above his stall, the roll of tape he always kept on the right side of his shelf waiting for him,half-used. Someone had stacked fresh towels where he liked them.
He sat down and began to suit up without rushing. Acknowledging the weight of the pads against his thighs. The rip of Velcro sealing him back into shape. Everything felt intimate and loaded now, here in a space that was typically so loud. Out on the ice, he could hear the distant scrape of blades cutting through drills, Sully’s voice barking something sharp and unimpressed. It wrapped around him like an old song.
He’d missed this.God,he’d missed this. Instead of feeling desperate for it like he had when he’d first gone to LA, now he felt grateful to have it. Nate flexed his hands once he’d laced his skates, testing the familiar pressure around his ankles.
For a long time, hockey had been the whole of him. Every bruise, every penalty minute, every fight a declaration that he belonged here, even if he didn’t belong anywhere else. Now, as he rose and rolled his shoulders under the weight of his gear, he knew something different. He loved this. But if it was taken from him tomorrow? He wouldn’t vanish with it.
He emerged from the tunnel and the cold wrapped around him, clean and immediate, and for one private moment he let himself stand there on the edge, feeling it all. Then he pushed off.
His first glide was smooth and unforced, the kind that came from years of repetition. He didn’t sprint. Old Nate used to hit the ice at a trot, a Clydesdale acting like a damn show pony. Instead he let the blades settle into their rhythm, body aligning naturally with the ice like he’d never left.
The team was finishing a drill at the far end, Mason chasing down a puck with more enthusiasm than control, Cashcoasting in lazy circles near center with a grin like he’d just said something obscene to the rookie. Leo was laughing at Cash, flicking a pass between his legs for flair. It was the same old chaos. The same rough, uneven energy that’d let him hide in plain sight for so long.
Hunter was the first to spot him.
“Brick?”
The nickname cut across the rink and heads snapped up. For a heartbeat, everything stalled, as though they were all looking at a ghost. Then the noise hit.
“Holy shit!”
“Look who decided to foxtrot on back to us, boys!”
“Eriksson, you gonna lift Sully next?”
Mason skidded to a stop in front of him, still the reckless rookie Nate’d left behind. He instantly thought about the last time he’d seen the kid, driving him into the boards convinced he was teaching him a lesson. Then his mind skipped to Alexei’s swollen eye and the quiet way he’d said it could be career-ending. He’d worn that damage like a badge once.
Now it just made him feel sick.
“That Cha Cha was insane,” Mason blurted, eyes bright with something dangerously close to awe. “How the hell did you not drop her on that spin?”
“She’s got a surprisingly strong grip,” Nate admitted, with a self-conscious chuckle.
“Maybe we should send you next then, Mace,” Cash grinned at the rookie as he drifted in, tapping his stick wordlessly toNate’s. “That way you’ll stop dropping your twig every five seconds.”
Nate laughed, the sound low and unguarded.
Cash leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that it didn’t carry across the rink. “Saw that piece about you visiting the Warriors kid,” he added, tone shifting almost imperceptibly. “Took some balls, man.”
Nate shrugged it off. “Should’ve done it sooner.”
Cash nodded once like that was the right answer, then straightened and ruined the moment by barking, “Alright, enough growth. Who’s ready to watch Brick pirouette?”
The rest of the team crowded in. They weren’t jeering or jabbing about misconducts or penalty minutes. They actually seemed excited to see him, asking questions about lifts, timing, and landing chirps. Wanting to know if he thought dancing might translate to on-ice skills. Wondering if Hollyreallybarked counts at him in rehearsal.
He answered them easily, chirped back when Cash mimed a dramatic hip swivel, and shoved Leo lightly when he asked if Nate’s ballroom shoes had steel edges. For the first time ever they were relating to him like a real member of the team instead of a weapon to be trotted out when someone needed to pay the piper. He didn’t cling to the moment. Instead he let it warm him from the inside out.
Across the rink, Jaime watched.
The veteran captain had coasted to the boards at some point, helmet tucked under his arm, posture deceptively relaxed. His expression gave nothing away, but Nate clocked the small details. Jaime’s jaw tightening when the boys laughed too loud,his gaze tracking the circle of players without stepping into the mix. It wasn’t resentment… it was distance. The kind that calcified over years of staying instead of shining.
When practice officially wrapped and Sully barked them toward the locker room, the team trickled off in clusters, still tossing comments over their shoulders at Nate.
Cash bumped him once more on the way past. “Don’t get soft on us, Brick. We’re expecting a Paso Doble celly next season.”
“Get fucked,” Nate laughed.
He glanced across the ice and saw Sully standing near the bench, arms folded over his chest, clipboard tucked under one elbow like it was an afterthought. Coach didn’t smile, but Nate wasn’t surprised. Warmth had never been Sully’s style. He just held Nate’s gaze for a long second. And then he gave him a single nod that saidyou’re not done yet, but you’re not finished either.
