Hockey never asked me to explain myself. Never asked me to be compassionate. Never asked what happened when I failed someone I loved. Hockey never needed apologies. Just performance.
I look at Amy. She hasn’t moved. Her eyes don’t try to challenge me. They assume I’m going to keep my allegiance where it’s always belonged—to something other than her.
She doesn’t accuse me. That almost makes it worse.
And suddenly I understand the cruel elegance of my own mind. One net gives me everything I was trained to value. Precision. Applause. Validation. A life where I already know the rules.
The other offers nothing I can predict.
If I shoot at Amy’s net, I don’t even know what taking the shot means. There’s no guarantee the puck goes in. No promise she stays afterward. There’s only potential—the terrifying kind that can grow into something breathtaking or burn your hands when you reach for it.
I push off, slow and deliberate.
The puck glides with me.
My heart isn’t racing. It’s heavy. Like it finally understands what it’s been carrying all these years.
I angle toward the first net.
The familiar one.
My goalie drops into position, reading my hips the way he always has. This is our dance. I could do it with my eyes closed.
Despite the swoosh of my blades, I hear Amy’s exhale. It’s resigned, but it lands on me harder than the roar ever could.
I stop on a dime. The puck slides forward another inch, momentum begging me to finish what I started.
I pivot.
The ice between me and the net Amy’s guarding feels insurmountable. Like I have to cross something more than distance to get there.
She doesn’t flinch as I review the play. She maintains the same walls.
I wish she’d make it easier by looking afraid or angry or certain. But she just stands there, hands loose at her sides, eyes steady.
“I won’t budge,” she says. Her voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “But you have to earn this.”
I line up the shot.
My hands are shaking now, and it’s unfamiliar, almost laughable. I’ve played through pain, through fear, through entire seasons fueled by rage and stubbornness. But this—this feels like stripping down in front of a full arena and trusting no one throws anything sharp.
Then I shoot.
The puck leaves my stick too softly. Not the way a coach would want. Not the way a highlight reel would remember.
It slides.
Slow. Honest. Vulnerable.
It passes Amy’s skates and kisses the inside of the post before crossing the line.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then she says, “I’ll be waiting,” right before she departs the ice.
I don’t feel triumphant. Nor relieved. I’m panting, knowing I have the hardest training ahead of me.
I wake up with my heart pounding, sheets twisted around my legs, breath uneven.
