About the word custody landing in my ex’s voice like it’s casual.
Like she’s talking about changing dinner plans.
Practice runs another forty minutes, and it is forty minutes of me pretending I’m fine.
Line rushes.
Breakouts.
A power play set where Dex is supposed to slide the puck back to me at the point and instead sends it right through my skates like he is trying to prove a point.
“Shelly,” he yells as he loops around, “your stick isn’t decorative.”
“It is when you pass like that,” I fire back.
The boys laugh, because I am participating, which means they assume I’m okay.
I'm not.
Coach has us run a neutral-zone regroup drill. Hard stops. Quick turns. Timing.
Timing is everything.
It is also the thing my life doesn't have right now.
I’m late to the slot by half a second.
I overcommit on the wall.
I take a shot that should be a one timer and instead I cradle it like it’s fragile.
Mason skates by and shoulder bumps me.
“Bro,” he says, like we are discussing the weather, “you're playing like you had a funeral this morning.”
“Shut up.”
He grins. “Okay, so who is she?”
Dex barks a laugh. “Yeah, Shelly. You only skate like that when a woman texts ‘we need to talk.’”
“Keep skating,” I tell Dex.
He taps his helmet. “You’re welcome. I’m keeping you humble.”
Coach blows the whistle again.
“Shelly,” he calls.
I coast toward him.
He waits until the rest of the guys are far enough away that he doesn’t have to perform captain-coach theater.
“You’re thinking about something that isn’t hockey,” he says.
“I can handle it.”
He looks at me for a second longer than I want.
