Page 63 of On Ice

I make a noncommittal sound, pulling out my gear. I feel eyes on me, but I don’t continue talking about Mom and her fake medical emergency. I don’t want to embellish my story too much. Less to keep straight that way. But I understand why they’re curious. It’s not like me to just disappear without a word.

“Jesus, what happened to your face?” Torres drops onto the bench next to me, still in his street clothes. He’s always the last to start gearing up, like typical rookie superstition.

“Oh, uh…” I turn away, pretending to dig through my bag. Shit. I was so consumed with Luca’s insane plan, I’d forgotten about my split lip and scratches on my face and arms. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Deck squints at me from his corner stall. “You take up boxing or something while you were gone?”

I laugh gruffly, trying to think up an excuse. “I… um got into a little fender bender on the way back from Mom’s,” I lie. “My face smacked the steering wheel, and glass from the side window cut me up a bit. But it’s all good.” I guess it’s a good thing Luca had my truck brought to his home. Otherwise the guys would be able to see my truck is in one piece.

Torres frowns. “Damn, that sucks, man.”

I force a smile, trying desperately to act normal. “Hey, I haven’t had an accident in over ten years. I was due.”

“I guess.” Deck laughs gruffly. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“You’re insurance will probably double now.” Torres sighs. “You know how those vultures are.”

“No lie,” I respond.

Noah catches my eye from his goalie stall, expression unreadable behind his carefully neutral face. He’s no doubt wondering why I didn’t call him. Maybe my cell was in my locker, but the nursing home would have phones. He knows me too well not to notice something’s off, but he stays quiet. For now. He’ll want some real answers when he gets me alone. I think I might have to tell him the truth. He’ll never buy my lame-ass story.

I’m grateful when Jackson changes the subject. “Hey, you missed it yesterday.” Jackson smirks. “Mills totally wiped out trying that new stick handling drill. Face-planted right into the boards.”

“Screw you, I caught an edge.” Mills launches a ball of tape at Jackson’s head. “Ice was garbage yesterday.”

“Sure, blame the ice.” Torres grins. “Nothing to do with those cement hands.”

The familiar banter washes over me as I start gearing up. I chirp at the guys a little, however, I feel stiff and unable to really join in. Everything feels heavier today: shin pads, shoulder pads, practice jersey. The lies.

Coach Baker sticks his head in. “Thirty minutes. We’re working special teams today so get ready to sweat.” His gaze lingers on me a moment too long. “Good to have you back, Riley. Mr. Barone mentioned you’d be returning today.”

“Glad to be back.” I focus on lacing my skates, feeling the weight of unasked questions in the room. The guys are probably wondering how the owner knows so much about my private life. So far, no one has had the nerve to ask. I’m hoping that holds fora while. I don’t want to get into it right now. I need to burn off some anxiety with practice.

“New owner seems more involved in shit than that last guy.” Mills says it casually, but there’s a question in it. “I don’t remember the last owner watching practices much. This guy is always around.”

“Everyone is different,” I say. “Barone actually likes hockey. Thompson was completely tuned out. As I recall he preferred baseball.”

“Good riddance to that piece of shit, Thompson,” Noah calls out.

“Amen.” Deck nods.

“Good on Barone that he takes an interest.” Coach sounds politely upbeat. “Shows commitment to the team. That’s something that was lacking before. I welcome Mr. Barone’s interest.”

I don’t comment, instead grabbing my sticks and heading for the ice ahead of the other guys. I need to move and get out on the ice. I’m craving something familiar and being on the ice always calms me.

The empty rink stretches out before me, clean sheet just laid down by the zamboni. My blades cut the first lines into pristine ice as I start lazy loops, letting muscle memory take over. This, at least, still makes sense. Feels right and it centers me.

Gradually the rest of the team filters out. Coach has us start with basic skating drills: edge work, acceleration, quick stops and starts. My legs burn, but I like it. The pains helps me forget how much anxiety is balled up inside me. I don’t want to think about Luca, but the bastard is like a backpack.

“Looking rusty, Cap,” Deck chirps as he blows past me during sprints.

“Surprised you can even remember who I am, old man,” I yell in response. I’m not rusty, but I am distracted.

Coach has us doing figure-eights around the circles, working on edge control. Next we break into lines for rush drills. Noah’s in net at one end, his movements precise as he squares up to each shot. The familiar rhythm starts to take over. Receive pass, drive wide, look for the trailing man. My body remembers this even if my head’s not fully here.

“Riley.” Coach’s voice cuts through the sound of skates and sticks. “You’re telegraphing that pass. Do it again.”

“Yes, Coach.” I grit my teeth and run through it again. Better that time. I need to get my head in the game. I’m supposed to lead these guys, not drag them down with mediocre play.

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