Page 138 of On Ice

“How are you holding up?” Luca asks quietly, his shoulder pressed against mine in the front pew.

The question feels illogical given where we are, but I appreciate his asking it anyway. I nod, not trusting my voice. Luca’s been my constant through this impossible week, standing slightly off-camera during my media appearances.

Matt sits on my other side, stoic and red-eyed, while Dad occupies the space beyond him, looking fragile in a way I’ve never associated with him before. We make a strange tableau, the Riley men and the mob boss who somehow belongs among us now.

Someone from Sports Illustrated texted this morning about rescheduling our cover shoot. The parade is set for Tuesday. Noah called about plans for a team gathering at his lake house next weekend. Life and hockey continue their relentless forward motion while we sit here, suspended in grief.

The minister speaks about Mom’s kindness, her strength through illness, her love for her family. His words wash over me without fully penetrating. I find myself instead remembering Mom quizzing me on spelling words at the kitchen table. Mom sewing name tags into my first travel team jersey. Mom making chicken soup when I had the flu during playoffs my junior year.

“Would anyone like to share some memories of Catherine?” the minister asks.

Matt stands first, sharing stories that pull reluctant laughter from the gathered mourners, Mom’s terrible singing voice, her competitive streak at family game nights, her uncanny ability to know when we were lying about homework. I watch my brother speak, marveling at his composure, knowing it will crumble later when the public performance is done.

When it’s my turn, I approach the podium on legs that feel disconnected from my body. The speech I prepared sits in my pocket, but I don’t reach for it.

“My mom was at every game she could physically attend,” I begin, my voice steadier than expected. “From frozen ponds when I was ten to major junior championships. She’d bring hot chocolate in a thermos, even in warm arenas, because she said winning or losing, hot chocolate made everything better.”

Scattered smiles appear among the mourners. I see teammates in the back rows, Noah, Torres, Rodriguez, Mills, Deck, all in dark suits.

“When I got drafted, she framed my first professional jersey before I even played a game. She believed in me before anyone else did.” I pause, gathering myself. “Last week, we won the Stanley Cup. And in her final moments, she was lucid enough to see it happen. I’ll forever be grateful for that one thing. That one moment.”

My voice cracks on the last word. Luca shifts in his seat, a subtle movement, but I notice. He’s so protective. He probably wants to jump up here with me and drag me off somewhere to grieve in peace.

“I wasn’t with her at the end. I was on the ice. But in some ways, that’s where she’d have wanted me to be, finishing what we started together all those years ago on those frozen ponds.”

I stop talking abruptly because my throat closes up. I return to my seat, feeling Luca’s steady hand on my back as I sit. Matt grips my shoulder briefly. Dad nods once, a gesture containing volumes.

The remainder of the service passes in fragments, the final prayer, the procession to the cemetery, the devastating finality of dirt on the casket. Through it all, Luca remains a steady presence, neither overstepping nor retreating.

At the small gathering afterward, I move through conversations on autopilot. Distant relatives tell me they recorded my Stanley Cup interviews. Old family friends mention seeing me on the cover of the local paper. The worlds of grief and achievement continue their uncomfortable collision.

“I need a minute,” I tell Luca after the third person congratulates me on the Cup while offering condolences in the same breath.

He nods, understanding immediately. “Garden’s through that door.”

I find my way outside, where spring has painted the funeral home’s garden in soft colors that seem almost offensive in their beauty today. I loosen my tie, gulping in fresh air.

“Thought you might need this,” Luca says, appearing beside me with a glass of water.

I accept it gratefully. “Thanks. For everything this week. The way you’ve handled the press, the parade planning, all the team obligations...” I clear my throat. “I feel like I’m going to collapse under the weight of it all.”

“I know.” His gaze is concerned. “I worry about you.”

“It’s just that, everyone expects something. ESPN wants the triumphant interview. The team needs their captain for the parade. The league has all these appearances lined up. I know I need to do all of that stuff. It’s expected of me. I get it. I mean, I want it, even though I don’t. I worked fucking hard to get here, so I earned it. But it’s just a lot, you know?” He winces. “Fuck, I sound like a whiney baby.”

“No you don’t. You’re just under a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. I just need to get through it.”

Luca is quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes, you do. You have to get through it. And like you say, a part of you wants it because youearnedit. But what if you could just escape afterward? Go somewhere no one wants anything from you?”

I look at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve made arrangements,” he says carefully. “After the parade and your day with the Cup. A place where no one knowsyou’re a hockey player or a grieving son. Just somewhere to... recalibrate.”

I widen my eyes, excitement rippling through me. “Where?”

“There’s an Island in the Maldives. I have a private villa over the water. We could go there together, if you want. There would be no media, no schedules. Just sun and ocean, and me.” His eyes search mine. “Say the word and we’re there. Or say no and I’ll cancel it all.”

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