Page 30 of Exes That Puck
I tuck it into my pocket, my thumb rubbing the paper like a worry stone. The game is in three weeks. Part of me wonders if he’ll play well, if the team will win, if he’s nervous about it.
I shake my head because I shouldn’t care. He’s clearly moved on, and so should I.
11
Tape hisses as it unrolls, blade guards scrape against concrete, and the quiet thump of equipment being adjusted fill the air. I tie my skates with deliberate focus, each loop tight and even. My phone sits in my bag, screen dark. I haven’t checked it since this morning.
The absence of that compulsion feels like breathing deeper.
Coach walks through, clipboard in hand, making final adjustments to lines. When he stops at my stall, I look up.
“Play clean. Communicate,” he says simply.
“Got it.”
He nods and moves on to give the next player advice. No lecture about penalties, no reminder about keeping my temper in check. Just trust that I’ll do what I said I’d do.
I mean it.
The tunnel to the ice is loud with crowd noise and music, but my head feels quiet. Focused. When we hit the rink for warm-ups,the cold air fills my lungs like medicine. This is where I make sense. Where everything else falls away and it’s just the game.
First period moves fast. I’m seeing the ice differently now, not just my opportunities, but everyone’s. When a perfect lane opens up toward the net, I spot Carter breaking free on the far side and send the puck his way instead of forcing a shot through traffic.
He buries it clean, top shelf, and skates over with his glove raised. The fist bump we share feels different than my old solo celebrations. Better, somehow.
“Nice vision,” he says through his mouthguard.
On the bench between shifts, Dylan calls out a defensive switch I wouldn’t have noticed two months ago. I file it away, use it when their power play tries the same setup ten minutes later. The play breaks down before they can get a shot off.
In the second period, a defenseman catches me with a shoulder bump along the boards. It’s nothing dirty, just hard hockey. Six weeks ago, I would’ve dropped my gloves or at least given him a shove back. Now I skate away, jaw tight but eyes forward. The heat is still there, but I’ve learned to let it burn without feeding it.
Coach catches my eye when I return to the bench and gives a small nod.
Midway through the third period, I hear something that stops me cold. A laugh that sounds exactly like hers cutting through the crowd noise. My head starts to turn toward the stands before I catch myself. Keep skating. Focus on the shift. Don’t search faces in the crowd for one that might not even be there.It’s all in your head. It’s all a test.
The final horn sounds with us up 3-1. Gloves slam together, helmets tap as we celebrate at center ice. Coach skates over during the handshake line.
“Proud of you tonight,” he says quietly.
The word hits like a balm I didn’t know I needed.
After the charity handshake with the opposing team, youth players flood the ice for photos and autographs. A kid maybe eight years old walks up to me, stopping at my shin pad level with wide eyes behind his cage.
“Can you sign this?” He holds up a foam puck.
I crouch down to his height, taking the puck and a Sharpie from one of the volunteers. “What’s your name, buddy?”
“Connor.”
“Connor—that’s a hockey name if I ever heard one.” I sign the puck with a flourish. “You been practicing your skating?”
He nods enthusiastically. “My laces keep coming undone though.”
“Here, let me show you something.” I demonstrate the double-knot technique my dad taught me when I was his age. “Try that next time. Works every time.”
He grins and skates away, clutching the puck like treasure.
As I straighten up, I catch sight of familiar faces pressed against the glass. Payton, Tori, and between them, Kara. She’s wearing a dark coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair tucked under a knit hat. For a moment, our eyes meet across the ice.
