There’s a moment, right after everything starts going right, when the past comes knocking like it never left. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet reminder that growth doesn’t erase what came before—it only raises the stakes on what you stand to lose. And if you’re not careful, fear has a way of convincing you thatprotecting something means keeping it to yourself. But here’s the trouble with that: the things worth keeping are almost never the things you can hold onto alone.
Playlist: “Even The Nights Are Better” by Air Supply
Pru is already in Franklin’s office when I get there.
That’s the first sign. Pru attends Franklin’s meetings the way she attends everything—efficiently, invisibly, with a clipboard and the expression of a woman who has already processed whatever is about to happen and filed it appropriately. When she’s waiting before I arrive, it means the meeting has a category. A serious one.
I sit down.
Franklin doesn’t do the thing he usually does, which is make me wait while he looks out the window establishing dominance. He just sits, which is worse somehow. More diabolical.
“There’s been a formal inquiry,” he says. “Filed six weeks ago. League office, player wellness division.”
I keep my face neutral. “About what.”
It’s not a question. I already know.
“The Main Street incident.” He slides a folder across the desk. “Video evidence, multiple witnesses, public record. They flagged it under the emotional fitness protocol.” He pauses. “There’s a mandatory psychological evaluation scheduled for ten days from now.”
I look at the folder. Don’t open it.
“And if the evaluation goes badly.”
“Suspension pending review.” Franklin’s voice is steady. “Possibly longer depending on the findings.” He leans forward. “Bennett. I need you to understand the position this puts the organization in. We’re four wins from a playoff spot. You’re the reason we’re four wins from a playoff spot. If you’re suspended—”
“I understand the position.”
“Do you?” His eyes are sharp. “Because the man I watched fall apart on Main Street two months ago is not the man I need leading this team through the next four games.”
“That man doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Then prove it.” He sits back. “The evaluation is with Dr. Carmichael in Duluth. League appointed. Neutral party, or so they say.” A pause. “Pru has the details.”
Pru hands me a slim manila folder with the quiet efficiency of someone who prepared it an hour ago. Date, time, location, the name of the psychiatrist and her credentials. Everything organized and clear and completely surreal.
I slip it inside my jacket.
“Is that everything?” I ask.
“For now.” Franklin holds my gaze. “Don’t make it more.”
I stand. Cross to the door. Stop with my hand on the frame.
“The team doesn’t hear about this,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Agreed.” Franklin’s voice follows me into the hallway. “Bennett. Don’t disappear on me.”
I don’t respond.
Practice starts at two. I’m on the ice by twelve-thirty, which gives me ninety minutes of empty rink and the particularsilence that only exists in an arena when no one else is there. The refrigeration hums. The overhead lights throw everything into sharp relief. The ice is perfect—freshly zambonied, Virgil’s work, smooth and white and completely indifferent to what just happened in Franklin’s office.
I skate.
Not drills. Not sequences. Just skating, the way I did when I was five years old and my dad hauled me to my feet every time I fell, back when hockey was just movement and speed and the cold air on my face and nothing else.
I skate until my legs stop feeling like they belong to someone else.
It doesn’t work.
