Page 178 of Puck Me Back to Life

I was scared.

I want to talk about this.

I lock the screen. Set the phone facedown. I can't do this. If I hear his voice, I'll crumble. And then he'll realize he should've left last night and never come back.

Silence is easier.

At least that's what I tell myself.

The strange thing about insomnia is how quickly your body remembers it.

For weeks I'd been sleeping again. Not perfectly—Sonia had warned me there would probably never be a magical morning where nightmares disappeared forever—but well enough that waking beside Ash had started feeling ordinary. Some nights I still startled awake convinced I was back on that ice with William. Most mornings, though, I found myself wrapped around Ash instead, his arm thrown possessively across my waist while he snored softly into my shoulder. Somewhere along the way, that became my new normal.

One bad night is apparently all it takes to undo months of progress.

My body slips back into old habits with frightening ease. My eyes burn before I even climb out of bed, my thoughts move through syrup, and every sound inside the apartment feels just a little too loud. The coffee maker hisses like it's angry with me. The cabinet doors close harder than I remember them closing yesterday. Even the sunlight pouring through my kitchen window seems brighter than usual.

I hadn't realized how much better I'd been doing until I lost it. That realization follows me through the entire morning. I shower because routine has become important. Sonia calls it behavioral consistency. Ash calls it “not giving depression extra ammunition.” Either way, I let muscle memory carry me through the motions while my brain lags several steps behind. Shampoo. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Wizards hoodie. Keys.

My phone vibrates while I'm tying my shoes.

I don't have to look to know who it is.

I tell myself I'll answer him later.

The lie feels familiar.

The arena is almost empty when I arrive. I like it this way.

Before the coaches arrive. Before trainers start hauling equipment through the hallways. Before Dante appears somehow already talking at full volume despite it being barely eight in the morning.

An empty rink gives me room to breathe. Or at least enough space to pretend I'm breathing normally.

The familiar smell of sharpened steel, rubber mats, and fresh ice settles something inside me the moment I step through the tunnel. Hockey has always spoken a language my body understands, even when my mind doesn't. I lace my skates slowly, tugging each knot tighter than necessary before stepping through the gate and onto the ice.

The cold air catches in my lungs.

The first push is awkward.

The second feels better.

By the third lap, my body remembers what to do without asking permission from my brain. Edge work. Crossovers. Forward-to-backward transitions. Tight turns around the circles.

Every drill demands just enough concentration that my thoughts begin to quiet. My blades carve familiar arcs into the fresh sheet while the arena remains almost perfectly silent except for the scrape of steel echoing through empty seats.

For twenty minutes, I almost convince myself today will be okay.

A knock against the glass breaks my concentration.

I glance toward the stands expecting to see one of the equipment guys.

Instead, I find Angela. She's holding a paper bag in one hand and waving with the other.

Despite everything, I smile.

I skate toward the boards. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought lunch.” She lifts the bag. “You weren't answering your phone.”