Page 5 of Back On Ice

Tom: Text when you’re just about to enter the rink through the southside entrance and wait around the corner. It’s supposed to be a surprise.

Tom’s textcomes through right as I shut the door to my car in the rec center parking lot, and I respond with a thumbs up before shoving the phone back in my pocket.

The deterioration becomes clearer the closer I get to the building. Damn.

Tom might haveundersold how much help the center needs.

The white paint on the large, rectangular building has yellowed, chipped, and is flaking off in some places on the exterior. The “Twin Rinks Rec Center” sign’s light is out on half the letters, so it just spells “T i Ri s R c nt r”, and half of those are blinking furiously like they could go out any second. If not for the sign, someone might mistake the building for a large warehouse.

I make it to the doors, where the privacy film is peeling from the corners of glass. The door makes an embarrassingly loud groan when I open them, and I cringe, surprised that no one has filed a noise complaint yet.

Inside isn’t much better. The lobby needs more than just a new coat of paint, and when I look above, the ceiling tiles are water-stained and warped. In the hallway is more of the same, including some cracks in the concrete that must have come from frost heaves. The handrails are falling down in some places, leaving them bolted to the wall on only one end, andthatis a safety hazard.

I finally approach the southside entrance to the actual rink and push the doors open, pleased that these ones don't screech like nails on a chalkboard. Leaning back against the wall just inside the doorway, I shoot Tom a text.

Me: I’m here

“Jr. Thorns, I’d like you to meet a very old friend of mine. Some of you might recognize him from the NHL, but before he did that, he played in the rink here, just like you.”

That’s my cue.

The fervent whispers of adolescent boys meet me as I round the corner, and I see Tom in all of his coaching glory, complete with a black and burgundy “Jr. Thorns” hoodie, a matching hat, and jeans. He taps the clipboard as his eyes meet mine. The team is in a huddle facing him, so they don’t see me right away.

Before they spot me, I take the rink in. It’s strange being here again, State championship banners line the rafters, including the one I won for my own team nine years ago. It’s more rundown than I remember, but that same feeling of… home fills my chest when I look at it.

The small gasps of parents in the bleachers have my attention snapping back towards the kids as they turn their heads towards me. Red, sweaty faces meet mine, their expressions turning from exhausted to excited in a split second.

We hadn’t planned on me meeting the team today, but when I told Tom that I was coming early, the timing worked out perfectly. He just asked that I let him go through his post-practice notes with the boys before introducing me.

“Carter Williams.” Tom grins, and kids rush me.

“Mr. Williams! Do you have a pre-game ritual?”

“Is it true you used to play here?”

“Jordan says that you knew him as a baby but I think he’s lying.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” My voice rings out as I put my hands up. “Hold your horses there, Jr. Thorns.” I take a deep breath, readying myself to answer their questions in rapid-fire. Each kid gets my attention as I supply them with the answer to their questions. “No real ritual, just meditation and hydration.” Pointing to the next kid, I follow up, “I did play here. I started when I was younger than you, and played every season up until I left for college.” My attention moves to the last one. “And yes, I most definitely did know Jordan as a baby—since he was born, in fact, and we used to hang out all the time.”

I easily pick Jordan out among his teammates and shoot him a wink. Even if I hadn’t been sent an image of Jordan in his Jr. Thorns uniform, a hockey stick in one hand, and his helmet tucked under his other arm just last week, I still would have recognized him. The kid is the spitting image of his dad, from his eyes to the shape of his nose. The only thing different is his sandy brown hair and freckles.

I can’t suppress my grin when his teammates all turn and gape at him. Jordan’s chest puffs up and he gives a smirk that straight up says “I told you so”, and I’m so glad to set the recordstraight. I stand up, pulling myself to my full height. “Three more questions.” After answering their random inquiries, like what’s my favorite food and have I ever been to Australia, they ask for autographs.

Parents rummage through bags trying to find something that I can sign, but I mostly end up inking up some jerseys, helmets, and hockey sticks. Everyone disperses, parents ready to go home and get dinner started, and I’m left with Tom, Jordan, and two other boys from the team.

My eyes catch on Tom’s gait as he limps his way to one of the bleachers. Fucking hell. He told me it was a bad injury but I haven’t seen the guy in nine years… that shit looks painful. He catches my stare and slightly shakes his head, telling me he doesn’t want to talk about it right now.

Respecting his wishes, I join him on the bleacher, and focus my attention on the three small hockey players in front of me. “You don’t have any questions for me, Jordan?”

His eyes—Tom’s eyes—stare back at me and widen as if he can’t believe I’m actually talking to him even though I just told his whole team I’ve known him since he was born. He looks to his dad for reassurance, and Tom just laughs. “Come on, Jord. I told you, I’ve known him a long time. You can ask him anything.”

Jordan’s cheeks flush, and he chews on his lip nervously. I’m not sure why he’s so nervous, Tom told me that the kid is even more outgoing thanIused to be.

“It’s true.” I smile gently, trying to put him at ease. “Ask me anything.”

He screws his eyes shut tight before he blurts out in one unintelligible sentence, “Wouldyoumaybeeverbeabletoworkwithmeontheiceyou’remyfavoritepalyerofalltime!”

Tom and I exchange a glance. “Do you want to try that again, bud? Maybe a little slower?” Tom’s trying to hold his laughter in,and I do my best to keep a straight face as Jordan’s face flushes an even deeper red.

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