Page 8 of Ice Mechanic

Every time I do something new, I mark it with time in the rink.

The first time I rode a bike, I went skating immediately after and fell a hundred times more than I did on my bike.

The tradition started then and it didn’t stop.

The skating, not the falling.

Tonight, I’ve put in my time to mark my first day in the Lucky Strikers. As I sit on the bench and swap my skates for sneakers, I feel that familiar buzz. So I sit there and just… bask in it.

For a while after getting kicked out of the league, I had the thought that my time as a professional hockey player was over.

Even if this town isn’t where I want to be, even if none of my teammates want me here, I still feel immensely grateful to have a chance at getting my toe back in the door.

My phone buzzes.

Mom.

I stiffen. My thumb hovers over the answer button but, in the end, I send the call to voicemail. I love my mom, but I already know what she has to say and it’s not a discussion I want to have right now.

Slinging my skates over my shoulder, I head straight for the showers.

Man, this exhaustion is the best kind. No thoughts in your head, no worries, no anxiety. Just the bone-deep contentment of getting in a good workout.

No, it’s more than just a workout.

It’s what the ice does to me. I love everything about hockey. The balance of skating and skill. The plays. The teamwork. The speed of the puck. The juxtaposition of being in the ring. Of fire and ice. Of hot and cold. Of sweat on chilled skin.

It’s like coffee hitting my veins. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d crawl back on the ice for one more sip, but my aching muscles warn me not to do anything that idiotic.

After grabbing a towel, I strip off my hockey gear and whip my shirt off. Passing by the mirror, I notice all the nicks and scars from my years of ice time. Hockey took its chunk of my flesh. I’m still waiting for it to take a few teeth too. It can take all of them if it wants to. I’ll play with dentures.

After the shower, I towel off and change into a simple T-shirt and basketball shorts.

My stomach growls. The steak I spotted in the hotel’s room service booklet is calling myname.

A chirp sounds again.

Mom.

I decide to answer because if I don’t, she’s going to keep calling. Then she’ll send a team out here to check on me and I don’t want that.

“Hey, ma.”

“Darling,” her impatient voice fills my ears, “are you coming to the Children’s Foundation Gala next month? You haven’t sent in your RSVP.”

I sigh heavily and walk outside to my car. “Mom, I’m not available for any social events. I’m focusing on hockey.”

“Chance, do you really need to dedicate all your time to a little rag-tag team in the minors? They’re so far behind, they drafted you in the off season.”

It’s a fair assessment, but it still makes me defensive. “They’re a solid team. With a few tweaks, they could be a real force. And either way, I’m only here temporarily.”

“Oh, honey. I thought the league never lets you back in after they kick you out?”

I cringe because that stings. Hard.

“Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“But you don’t have to.” I hear the scolding behind her words. “You should come home so we can figure it out together.”

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