It’s muscle memory, the kind you never really forget.
The room is completely silent except for the soft rip of tape.
By the time I finish, the stick looks ready for a real game again.
I set it down beside me and dig deeper into the bag.
A pair of gloves.
My old elbow pads.
Then something heavier.
Dad’s coaching whistle.
I hadn’t even realized it was still in here.
I turn it over in my hands, the metal cool against my palm.
I can almost hear his voice echoing across the rink again.
Head up, Leo.
Read the play - don’t rush it.
Tomorrow I’m going back onto the ice. It might not be under my own name, but I’ll still be playing the game he taught me.
I glance down at the stick leaning against my bed and at the gear laid out neatly beside it.
“I’m really doing this,” I whisper to the empty room.
9
LEONORA
I’m on the ice by 6:45 a.m.
Fifteen minutes early.
Tara let me in through the side entrance exactly like she promised, the quiet corridor leading straight to the little treatment room she’s claimed as my “locker space.” It feels odd changing there alone - no noise or locker-room chaos, just the hum of the building waking up around me.
But it works.
The rink lights are already on when I step out onto the ice. The surface is untouched, smooth and pale under the bright overhead panels.
I skate in long, easy strides.
I circle the neutral zone once, then again, letting the rhythm calm my jitters.
This is real.
The door to the rink opens a few minutes later.
One of the defencemen walks in first, carrying his stick in one hand and a takeaway coffee cup in the other. Behind him anotherplayer appears, also holding coffee, still half-asleep and yawning. The smell drifts faintly across the rink as they gather near the bench, steaming cups in gloved hands.
My mouth waters instantly.
God, I would kill for coffee right now.
