The league is still pretending we’ll finish the season, but nobody’s buying it.
The arena is taped off, the ice warped by too many bleach rinses, the air thick with police tape and the scent of tragedy.
Our new practice spot is a rink in Bellevue that smells like burnt popcorn and urinal pucks, and our team meetings happen in a rec room with folding chairs and a digital clock stuck at 4:20.
Coach Vasquez doesn’t yell anymore. She just reads from the playbook in a voice that sounds like she’s already on vacation.
Our first week back, two guys quit. One just never showed up again, the other sent a mass email about “re-evaluating priorities.” Nobody can blame them.
I’m still here. I show up early, tape my stick the old way, work my lines, do everything exactly as I did before.
I guess some part of me thinks if I keep skating, maybe the world will go back to how it was.
Instead, it just gets weirder.
O'Doul pulls me aside after Tuesday's practice, puts a hand on my shoulder. "You good, Rosen? You've been skating like a man possessed." I shrug. "Just trying to stay useful."
He nods, like that's enough. It has to be.
I'm still the sub, still the warm body they slot in when someone else can't go. That hasn't changed. Nothing has.
I walk home in my street clothes, thinking I should feel something. Pride, maybe? Relief?
But all I feel is the itch, that old wound of knowing every achievement is just a temporary reprieve.
I get home, kick off my shoes, and stare at my phone. Nothing from Darius. Not even a meme in the team group chat.
I open Tinder, close it. Open Grindr, close it faster. What’s the point?
I pace my kitchen, eat a sleeve of saltines, and think about texting Darius, but I don’t.
Instead, I pull up the schedule for tomorrow’s therapy, see he’s slotted for the hour after mine.
I debate faking sick, but show up anyway.
———
At the shrink’s office, there’s a new receptionist, a guy who looks like he got lost on his way to a vape shop, and he asks me to fill out the same trauma intake as last week.
“Have you experienced any of the following in the last 24 hours?” I circle everything, because it’s easier than picking one.
Dr. Sharma waves me in.
We do the dance again, talk about the dreams, the headaches, the weirdness of skating in a borrowed rink with half the roster gone.
“Have you reached out to your teammate?” she asks, as if it’s a real option.
“Not yet. I figure if he wants to talk, he’ll talk.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s disappointed. I almost want to say, “I’ll do it, I’ll text him,” but then what? What do you say to someone whose entire life is compartmentalized into not feeling?
After the session, I linger by the reception, pretending to read a flyer about breathing techniques, when I see him.
Darius. He’s taller than I remember, somehow, or maybe I’ve just been shrinking.
He wears the same gray hoodie and black track pants he always does, but his face is different: less armor, more raw.
He glances at me, the barest flicker, then looks away. I want to say, “Hey,” but the receptionist is watching, so I just nod.
