“Of course, yeah, let’s get out of here,” I say.
We put on our jackets, the mundane action feeling significant for some reason. “See you later this week?”
“That’s correct,” she replies, her tone slipping back into professional territory, though her eyes linger on me for a moment longer. “Come ready to work. No excuses.”
“I’ll be here,” I say. “Whether I can walk afterward is another question.”
“Take those back stairs on your way out,” she says as I head for the door.
Before leaving, I glance back. She’s turning off the studio lights, her movements mesmerizing even in this simple task, and I’m struck by how she makes everything look like choreography.
I descend the steps slowly, partly because my legs are staging a full revolt and partly because I’m not ready for this to be over. The lactic acid floods my quads and hamstrings, promising a tomorrow full of wincing and cursing. I’ll be sore in that special way where getting out of bed becomes a feat, where sitting down requires careful negotiation with gravity.
And yet, for the first time in months, I feel like I’m moving in the right direction. Like maybe the story I’ve been telling myself about being finished might need some serious revisions.
Chapter Eight
The familiar chill of the Sentinels’ rink sweeps over me as I walk through the players’ entrance. The cooling system sings its mechanical hymn against the high ceilings. The scent of ice and sweat swirl in my nostrils—Eau de NHL.
My legs still burn from the ballet session with Petra. Muscles I forgot I had, didn’t evenrealizeI had, sore, but the burn is comforting, a reminder that I’m not done yet.
If I can push through the discomfort, I think.If I can get stronger. If,if, if.
As I round the corner, a familiar voice breaks through my spiral of conditional futures.
“LeClerc!”
Trailing behind me like an overeager puppy with administrative duties is Rocky, clutching his ever-present clipboard. His trademark smirk is firmly plastered on his heavily bearded face. I think this particular look says he knows something you don’t and is dying to tell you about it.
“LeClerc, back in the wild! What’s the occasion? Need some more ballet tickets?”
“What’s going on, Rocky?” I reply, dropping my bag onto a nearby bench.
“If the rumor mill’s to be believed, there’s some big stuff brewing around here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Big stuff?”
Just then, Dewey emerges from the locker room. He greets me with a fist bump but no jokes. Something’s off.
Rocky leans in slightly, lowering his voice to that conspiratorial whisper that never actually stays secret. “Personnel changes, shakeups, headline bait. I overheard a couple reporters yapping about it after practice.”
Dewey shoots Rocky a glance—quick, the kind of look that saysshut up. I catch it immediately.
“What kind of shakeups?” I ask.
Rocky hesitates for a beat, just long enough for my stomach to start its familiar descent into dread. “They didn’t say much. Something about the team exploring options, maybe a trade for that nineteen-year-old hotshot center everyone’s been drooling over.”
I try to play it cool. “Yeah, I saw something about that rumor.”
“Probably just noise,” Rocky continues, sensing my mood shift.
“We’ll see, I guess,” I say.
“Relax,” Rocky says, waving a hand with the casual dismissiveness of someone whose career isn’t hanging by a thread. “Reporters love throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks.”
I nod, but my focus has already shifted to Dewey, who’s being unusually quiet, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Dewey,” I say. “What aren’t you telling me?”
