Page 73 of Rookie Recovery

He grumbled, but pulled them on anyway. Then his white Bulldogs jersey. Then a blue helmet with a clear half-shield. Gloves.

And then, there was nothing else. Nothing more separating me from the ice except a short walk down a padded hallway. Like a million other short walks down a million other padded hallways I’d taken in my life.

In the last ten years, even.

I stood. On the thin blades of skates that felt so fucking familiar under my feet. Headed for the door. My gloved hand reached out to grip my freshly-taped stick. Two of my fingers poked through the torn leather to grasp the smooth composite.

“Hey.” Bowie’s voice made me pause. He sidled up next to me. Green eyes sparkled through the clear plastic of the half-shield as he tilted his head up. The blade of his stick tapped against my shin pad. “I’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you.”

Breath slid from my lungs in a slow sigh. “Yeah. I know.”

We walked down the hall. Side by side.

I’ve got you.

The door stood open before us, and the ice yawned wide beyond it. Wide and white, bright and cold, promising and alluring and terrifying all at once. Bowie broke into a little jog and hopped out, like he couldn’t wait any longer. But he spun to face me, to wait for me.

C’mon, Sullivan. You’re being a pussy.

I knew it, too. I’d built this all up in my head as some big fucking thing. It wasn’t about my knee, never had been, since it had knocked me out of the pro arena. This was about me and all the walls I’d put up around this game. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to tear them down.

I stepped out onto the ice.

Fuck.

That first step. The smooth glide. The bite of cold air against my face, the sharp scent of it. The blade tapping down. Fuck. It all came rushing back like ten years hadn’t passed.

“Feel good?” Bowie asked, falling into stride beside me as I let the rhythm take over. “Cause fuck, it feels good to me, and it’s been like a month.”

He spun around backwards to face me, his edges cutting effortless paths into the slick white. Behind him, a puck smashed into the boards as one of the older guys slapped a shot past the empty net.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Yeah, it feels good.”

I opened my stride, fell into that natural power-stance. My knee didn’t so much as squeak in protest as I shifted my weight to it. Or as I spun backwards, then forwards again.

Bowie kept pace beside me the whole time.

“How’s the shoulder?” I cut to the right to snatch up a discarded puck. Batted it around a bit—goddamn it’d been so long since I’d last stickhandled. Since I’d spent hours in front of the TV never looking down, or wound pucks through chair legs and various pieces of furniture, brothers’ and roommates’ feet.

“Good.” He held the stick in both hands, taking the pressure off the left one. Didn’t reach for a puck. He’d be back on the ice for real soon enough, I realized. I should cherish this moment. Him and me. Here. Together.

Because it wouldn’t last.

We rounded behind the net, and I pulled to a stop at the red line. Tilted my head towards him and grinned. “Race you.”

I took off. Blades cutting hard. Legs pumping. Stick extended in front, puck nestled into the soft crescent of its curve. Bowie’s laugh reached me as he hurtled after me, drew even. Passed me as we hit the far red line.

“Too slow, you old codger.”

“I’m out of practice.” I said, lungs heaving. Out of shape, too, apparently. But grinning like a fucking fool.

Bowie spun backwards to lead me around the net to the other side. “Backwards?”

My grin widened. Defensemen love skating backwards. “Sure, little winger. Backwards.”

We faced each other, crouching along that red line. Both of us smirking like kids. My heart racing in anticipation.

He took off, whipping backwards, and I leapt after him. Edges sinking into ice—those perfectly cut blades carrying me flying after him. In line with him. I dug harder …

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