Page 7 of The Assist
I started skatingwhen I was five. Too young really, but no one told me I couldn’t, so I did. My mum bought me a pair of second-hand boots, in case it was a passing phase, and an hour of ice time at the local rink every Saturday. I fell more than I skated, but I kept going. Even when my knees were raw and bleeding. Even when my fingers went numb through the holes in my gloves.
The first time I scored a proper goal in a little league game when I was eight, she cried in the stands. I remember that. Not the goal. Not how it happened. Just her face. Lit up like it meant something. LikeImeant something.
Dad didn’t come to that game. Or the one after. Or the one after that.
He always had reasons, albeit shitty ones. He had to work, the lawn needed mowing or he had to see a man about a dog. You name it, he had the excuse already lined up.
Eventually, he stopped pretending, and Mum stopped asking him to come along. I stopped caring.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Mia’s voice snaps me back to the training session that’s playing out on the ice.
“You’re not cleared for training.”
I turn and there she is, arms folded, black hoodie pulledtight around her like armour. She looks tired. Not in a way that shows, but I can see it. The set of her jaw. The tightness in her shoulders.
“Not training,” I say. “Just watching.” My shoulders shrug in a matter-of-fact way.
“You’re in skates. You don’t need skates to watch.”
“Didn’t want to feel left out.”
She steps closer, her eyes scanning me like she’s checking for fresh damage. Her gaze lands on my ankle brace, then flicks to my shoulder, still stiff from yesterday’s rehab. “You’re going to set yourself back,” she says, quieter now.
“Probably.” Although I’m not sure how watching my teammates train is going to cause me any further damage, or prevent my body from healing.
“So why do it?”
“Habit.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just watches me for a beat, then gestures with her head. “Come on. I need to re-tape that ankle.”
I hesitate. “Kind of enjoying the view from here.”
“Winters.” The tone of her voice leaves no room for a comeback so I follow her without arguing. My body doesn’t have the energy to be stubborn right now.
The treatment room reeks of Deep Heat and stubborn men. She gets me up on the table, and starts cutting the old tape off my ankle with surgical precision. Her hands are steady and fast. She doesn’t fumble.
I always wonder what she sees when she works. If she notices the old scars. The faint bruises that never really fade. Whether she tries to piece together a history from the bits of broken that are on show.
“Why hockey?” she asks out of nowhere.
I blink. “What?”
“You said it’s a habit. Being here. Pushing through injury.Why this sport? Why not football or rugby or…I don’t know. Something less likely to kill you.”
I shrug. “Wasn’t good at anything else.”
She doesn’t buy that. I can tell by the way her eyes narrow slightly.
“I liked the noise,” I say after a pause. “The speed. The hits. Everything about it. There’s no space to think out there. You just react.”
She finishes taping and sits back, arms on her knees. “That why you can’t sit still? Scared of the silence?”
I let out a breath, it’s almost a laugh. “Christ, you’re intense.”
“Just observant.”
