Page 5 of Hat Trick Daddies

Yet her absence suddenly left me unsteady, like missing a step on a staircase.

I exhale sharply, the cold air biting at my throat as I straighten up.

I roll my neck, testing it for soreness from that last hit.

“Brooks!” Coach Walker’s voice booms across the rink, cutting through the chaos. “You good?”

“All good, Coach!” I shout back, raising a gloved hand.

Around me, the other players echo similar reassurances, their voices blending with the scrape of pucks against boards and the dull thuds of collisions.

Coach Walker narrows his eyes, scanning the group like he’s trying to sniff out a lie. After a moment, he nods sharply, waving us back into formation.

I grip my stick tighter, letting the familiar texture of the tape under my gloves center me. Today, though, my focus feels like it’s on thin ice, cracking under the weight of thoughts I can’t seem to shake.

Throwing myself back into practice, I tell myself to focus.

The twins aren’t wrong. I’m not getting any younger. I have to prove that I still have what it takes to play on this team.

Pass, skate, check, pass, it’s a routine I’ve mastered, but today I feel disconnected from my actions, like I’m going through the motions without the usual precision.

The puck glides toward me, and I stretch my stick out to intercept it.

My blade misses by a hair, and the puck slides past me to an opposing player.

He doesn’t hesitate, streaking down the ice and taking a clean shot at the net.

The sharp smack of the goalie’s blocker deflecting the puck echoes through the rink, followed by a groan from my teammates.

My stomach twists as I skate back into position, heat rushing to my face.

“Brooks!” Walker’s voice cuts through the disappointment. “Keep your head in the game!”

I nod quickly, muttering, “Got it, Coach,” but my frustration grows.

The twins skate past me, and I catch Tyler’s smirk. “Careful, old man,” he quips. “Don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I snap back, more curtly than I intended.

Tyler just laughs, skating away, and I grit my teeth.

At thirty-five, I know I’m skating on borrowed time. Every practice, every game is a chance to prove I still belong here, but the years don’t get lighter.

My muscles ache a little longer after each practice session, and the hits feel harder than they used to.

There’s no room for error, not now, not ever.

The puck lands on my stick again, and this time, I focus. I weave past a defender, my skates slicing into the ice with sharp precision.

My lungs burn as I drive toward the net, the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

The goalie squares up, his stick poised, but I see an opening. I pull back and snap the puck toward the net. It whistles through the air and hits the back of the goal with a satisfying thud.

Cheers erupt from the sideline, the staffers clapping and shouting. My teammates skate over, slapping my back as I circle around, catching my breath. “Nice shot, Brooks!” one of them calls out, and I give a brief nod, my chest swelling with pride.

This is where I belong, on the ice, proving I can still keep up with the best.

But even as the puck drops again, I catch myself glancing toward the glass, searching for a face I know isn’t there.

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