I hear the way his breathing spikes, the quick, shallow inhale that means he’s about to say something.
But before he can, I’m up, rolling off, back on my feet.
I offer a hand, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he pushes up on his own, gives me a tight, unreadable smile, and skates back to his line.
Practice ends with suicides, because Coach believes in suffering as a team-building exercise.
I win the first two, then coast the rest, letting the younger guys get their glory.
When the whistle blows, I’m the first off the ice, gear already half-shed by the time the rest of the team hits the tunnel.
I change in record time, skip the shower, and am out the side door before anyone has a chance to corner me.
Except Ash.
He’s waiting by the staff exit, hoodie up, backpack slung over one shoulder.
He looks tired, like the last week aged him a year, but his eyes are sharp.
“Hey,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “Can we talk?”
I don’t slow down. “Got somewhere to be.”
“Darius—” he starts, but I cut him off with a look. Not a glare, not a threat, just the kind of look that says, “Don’t. Not here.”
He flinches, just a little, then lets it go. “Okay,” he says, but I can hear the rest of the sentence: “I’ll wait. I always do.”
I don’t answer. I just keep walking, jaw clenched so tight it feels like my molars might crack.
In the car, I let myself breathe. My hands shake as I start the engine, and I have to sit there for a minute, watching the steam fog the windshield, before I can drive.
I don’t check my phone, but I know there will be a message. Probably just the word “sorry,” or maybe “call me?” or maybe nothing at all. Sometimes I think that’s worse.
On the drive home, I replay every second of the practice, every save, every slip, every moment I could have said something, done something, but didn’t.
I tell myself it’s for the best. That the only way through this is to keep moving, keep playing, keep the world at arm’s length.
But the truth is, every mile I put between myself and the rink just makes the silence that much louder.
At the apartment, I drop my bag in the hall and head straight for the shower. I turn the water so hot it stings, stand there until my skin goes numb, and let the day wash down the drain.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I tell myself I can do this.
But when I close my eyes, I see him in the crease, breath fogging the air, looking at me like he still believes I’m worth saving.
And that’s the part I can’t shut out.
———
There’s a rhythm to loneliness, and after a week of it, I’m practically a metronome.
Wake up, run three miles, shower. Order takeout, eat it straight from the container.
Work the game tape until my eyes burn, pretend that every save I watch is a punchline to a joke nobody gets but me. When the world starts to blur at the edges, I crash on the couch, then do it all again in the morning. If I’m lucky, I sleep for a couple hours.
If I’m not, I just lie there and count the things I’ve lost.
