Page 68 of Off the Ice

I had no purpose.

I had gone through injuries before, had even been benched for a handful of games in my early career, but this was different. This wasn’t temporary. There was no comeback plan, no rehab schedule, no trainer telling me how long it would take to get back on the ice.

This wasn’t an injury.

This was exile.

And I didn’t know who I was without hockey.

The first day after the suspension, I stayed in bed for hours. Staring at the ceiling. Ignoring the texts, the calls, the noise.

The second day, I drove.

I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, didn’t think much about it at all. I just got in the car and went. The Chicago skyline disappeared behind me, swallowed by empty roads and snow-covered fields. By the time I pulled into my grandfather’s long driveway, my hands were clenched so tight around the wheel my knuckles ached.

The pond in the backyard had frozen over completely, the same way it did every winter. It was where I had first learned to skate, where I had spent hours with my grandfather, chasing the puck across the ice until my legs were too sore to keep moving.

So that’s where I went.

I didn’t go inside. Didn’t call ahead. I just grabbed my gear from the trunk and stepped onto the ice, the wind biting through my jacket.

And I skated.

Lap after lap. Drills that meant nothing. Sprinting from one end to the other, cutting hard on my edges, sending sprays of ice into the air. Shooting at an empty net, retrieving the puck, shooting again.

Over and over.

The motions were instinctive, burned into my body after decades of repetition.

It should have felt grounding. Should have given me some sense of control, of familiarity.

But it didn’t.

Because no matter how fast I skated, no matter how hard I shot, it didn’t change the fact that I wasn’t doing this for a team anymore.

I wasn’t doing this for anything.

I was a man alone on the ice, clinging to something that was already slipping through my fingers.

Ava came to find me the next day.

I had been expecting it. She was the only one who hadn’t given up on me, the only one who refused to let me drown in my own self-destruction.

She stood at the edge of the pond, bundled up in a thick coat, her arms wrapped around herself as she watched me skate in endless circles.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t acknowledge her.

But I felt her eyes on me, watching, worried.

She let me skate for a while, but eventually, when I skated too close to where she stood, she spoke.

“Logan.” Her voice was quiet, hesitant. “Come inside.”

I gritted my teeth and skated harder.

“Logan.”

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