Page 54 of Puck Me Back to Life

I pick up my phone. My thumbs hover over the screen for a second before I type.

Crazy of you to assume I didn't know who Hayes was.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

7

Kai

The problem is that I can't stop thinking about Ash. Not Ash as a person. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

It isn't Ash's face that follows me through the next morning. It isn't the way he smirks whenever he catches me staring at him or the way his voice drops when he's giving an order he expects to be obeyed. It isn't even the memory of his hands, though that particular memory is difficult to avoid.

What follows me is the silence.

For two years, my mind has been a hostile place to live.

Every night follows the same general pattern. William dies. The crowd screams. Somebody writes something cruel online. An old interview resurfaces. I remember a mistake I made six months ago. Then a mistake I made six years ago. Then a conversation that should have gone differently. Then another one. Then another.

My brain collects guilt the way some people collect stamps.

There is always more.

Always another memory.

Always another reason to stay awake.

Then I met Ash. For a few hours, everything stopped.

No blood.

No headlines.

No William.

No endless replay of every terrible thing that has ever happened.

Just quiet.

I don't think most people understand how valuable silence becomes when you've spent years without it.

The memory follows me through breakfast, through meetings, and eventually onto the ice. Coach is explaining a drill. I'm pretending to listen.

In reality, I'm wondering whether Ash is going to text me. The realization is embarrassing enough that I immediately try to reframe it.

I don't miss him. I miss the feeling. That's different. At least it sounds different when I say it in my head.

Unfortunately, my brain isn't buying the argument. When I glance across the ice, Ash is already looking at me. I immediately focus on my stick.

The whistle blows. Practice begins. For the first half hour, I manage to concentrate. Hockey still has the ability to pull me out of myself when I let it.

The ice makes sense. It always has. There are rules. Expectations. Objectives.

You skate.

You pass.

You shoot.