Page 66 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

Chapter 47

I haven’t talked to Elliot in weeks, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have to get through each day without thinking about him. The echoes of our last night together haunt me, a bittersweet reminder of what we once had. I avoid any news reports about him, refusing to read a single article that mentions his name. And damn, there are so many reports. His name is everywhere. It’s damned near impossible to avoid, but I’ve tried my damnedest.

The thought of seeing his face, hearing his voice, even in the form of a soundbite, is too much to bear. I want to erase him from my mind, to make him disappear completely from my life. But no matter how hard I try, Elliot St. Germain is a ghost that refuses to be exorcized, lingering in the corners of my thoughts, a constant reminder of what will never be. The ache of missing him is a dull, persistent throb, but I have to keep pushing forward. Hoping that one day, the pain will finally fade away.

In Atlanta, I am determined to build a life for myself, starting fresh in a city that is beginning to feel like home. My yearly lease is up, and I know I don’t want to stay in my old apartment again, but I have nowhere else to go. So, I decide to find my new forever home. I go with a month by month lease in the terrible apartment until I can find something else. The thin walls and leaky faucets are temporary. I spend my weekends driving through different neighborhoods, looking for where I want to be, hoping to find a place that feels just right. Each townhouse I tour falls short in some way, none capturing the sense of belonging I crave. Despite the frustration, the search gives me a sense of purpose and distraction, helping me focus on my future rather than the past I need to move on from.

I have a Friday afternoon off and plan to spend it touring different places. Tonight is the night. I will find my new place. I can feel it. I manifest it. My goal is to put an offer on my new home. At this point, I have to. The realtor greets me with a bright smile as I arrive at the first townhouse. As we walk through the rooms, I can’t help but notice how much it reminds me of Elliot’s house—the open layout, deep, vibrant colors, unfinished wood, and modern finishes. Each detail brings back memories of late nights and stolen moments, and it feels like a bittersweet echo of a life that isn’t mine anymore.

Next, we visit a townhouse that is the complete opposite. Elliot would hate it. The dark, cramped spaces, outdated appliances, and overall neglected feel make it clear this place isn’t right for me either. I try to picture myself living here, but the image just isn’t there.

Finally, we enter a townhouse that feels like a perfect blend. It has the cozy charm I love and the sleek design Elliot would gravitate toward. It feels perfect, like a compromisebetween what I want and what reminds me of him and that is terrifying. As I stand there, taking it all in, a sense of defeat washes over me. I am not sure if I'm trying to find a home for myself or a memory of what could have been.

I turn to the realtor, managing a weak smile. “I love it, but I can’t tonight,” I say softly.

She nods with understanding in her eyes. As I leave, frustration courses through my veins. I have to figure out what I truly want, independent of anyone else. I take the evening to really think about what this change should, and could, look like for me.

A typical weekend in Atlanta has started to form its own comforting rhythm. Saturday mornings begin with a walk along the Beltline, the warm air and vibrant scenery offering a refreshing start to the day. I stop by a local coffee shop or café afterward for an easy breakfast, savoring the quiet time with a book or my thoughts. Afternoons are spent exploring what the city has to offer—blending my time between being a tourist and becoming a local. So far, I have found some new favorite restaurants and shops.

Sundays are reserved for a mix of relaxation and productivity. They are my reset day. I start with yoga, followed by brunch at a new place. Maybe one day soon, I will have a long list of the best brunch spots and a group of friends that I can invite to join me. The rest of the day is dedicated to preparing for the week ahead—meal prepping, catching up on errands, and squeezing in some self-care time. It is a simple routine, but always in the background there is a lingering sense that something is missing. Yet each weekend that passes by, a feeling of fulfillment starts to outweigh what may still be missing.

A day in my life at my new job is everything I have ever dreamed of. Mornings begin with the adrenaline rush of prepping for the day’s broadcast, poring over the latest headlines, and crafting my segment with meticulous care. The newsroom buzzes with energy, a hive of activity that I thrive in. I love the pace, the pressure, and the sense of purpose it gives me. Each story I report on feels like a step forward, a piece of the larger puzzle that is my career. The hours fly by in a blur of interviews, editing, and live on-air moments. By the time I wrap up in the evening, I am exhausted but exhilarated.

My dedication is paying off. My segments are getting noticed, and praise from my colleagues and superiors is frequent. Yet, in throwing myself so completely into my work, my social life has dwindled to almost nothing. My friends are practically nonexistent, replaced by the glow of the studio lights and the hum of the newsroom. This is the life I have wanted, but in the quiet moments, the loneliness creeps in.

At least I have built one genuine relationship with Rachel. Over brunch, she looks radiant, the glow of new motherhood evident. “So, how’s life with the baby?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Rachel’s face lights up. “It’s amazing, Ziggy. Exhausting, but amazing. Every day is an adventure.”

“And you still haven’t heard from the father?” I ask her. Knowing it’s a touchy subject, but wanting to be there for her if and when that changes.

“No, that will never happen.” she says resolutely. “How’s the news world treating you?”

I smile, stirring my coffee. “It’s perfect. I love it. Keeps me busy, which is good. I know you are staying busy with a new baby. Are you seeing anyone?”

Rachel laughs. “Dating with a newborn? Not really, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. And you? Anyone special in your life?”

I hesitate, feeling a lump form in my throat. “There was someone... Elliot, from the Red Wolves. It was intense, but we both moved on.”

Rachel’s eyes widen. “Elliot St. Germain? I should have known! It makes perfect sense. You two seem like such a fit.”

I nod, the memories flooding back. “Yeah, we were far from the perfect fit at first, but along the way it felt right in the moment. But, our worlds are so different. We had an agreement going in–to keep it casual during the season–and we followed through with that decision. It’s for the best, I guess.”

Rachel reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “You never know, Ziggy. Sometimes, things have a way of working out when you least expect it.”

Rachel listens with genuine interest, and I am so thankful for it. Our friendship might not have started off as sincere on my part. Initially, it was my own obsession with success and being a know-it-all standing in my own way. After life in the sports world knocked me on my ass and taught me I needed help from others, she was there for me to provide not only co-worker support but also a true friendship. It was grounding, a reminder of where I came from, and a bridge to the present.

Another week goes by, and each day is similar. Interesting, insanely busy—I love it. I go home after work, the familiarsilence of my apartment greeting me. My time spent working, no matter how engrossing, isn’t enough to distract from the feeling of something gnawing at my insides. I hope that one day this emptiness will fade away. It has to. As I sink into the couch, trying to lose myself in a book, my phone rings. It’s my realtor.

“Ziggy, I know you really liked the last townhouse from Friday, but there is something holding you back. I thought you should know there’s one offer on it. You still have a chance to make it yours if it’s what you really want.” My heart skips a beat, the possibility of a fresh start dangling just within reach.

Chapter 48

Announcing my early retirement from professional hockey is a decision I have agonized over for weeks. As I stand at the podium, the weight of my choice settles over me like a heavy blanket. I am ready, but it still feels like an out of body experience. I can see myself speaking to the fans, to the camera and to the reporters–like an outsider, looking down at myself as I speak.

“Today, I announce my retirement from professional hockey,” I begin as the room falls silent.

“This decision has not come easily, but after achieving my lifelong dream of winning the Stanley Cup, I feel it is the right time to step away from the game. Hockey has given me everything, and I have given everything to hockey. Now, it’s time to embrace new challenges and opportunities. I am excited to focus on expanding the popularity of hockey in a different way, connecting with fans, and sharing stories in a new way. I wantto thank my teammates, coaches, the Red Wolves organization, the fans, and, most importantly, Ma Anatife. Your support has meant the world to me. This is not the end, but a new beginning.”

---