Page 103 of King of the Crease

He laughs like I’ve told the greatest joke in the world.

Still, the sadness lingers beneath everything—like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.

Until I hear it. A puck striking plastic boards.

My head turns instinctively.

Down the corridor, through an open doorway, comes the unmistakable scrape of sneakers and shouting voices. I drift toward the sound.

Inside an empty physical therapy room, a group of kids have set up a makeshift rink. Foam barriers mark boundaries. Two tiny nets sit at opposite ends. Nurses lean against the wall watching as children in hospital gowns chase a bright orange ball with miniature sticks.

One kid notices me first.

His eyes go wide. “It’s the prince!”

The game halts immediately.

I raise my hands. “Please don’t stop on my account.”

A boy holding a goalie mask squints at me. “Do you play?”

I hesitate.

Images flash—Summers Rink lights, Hank’s voice shouting encouragement, the feeling of pads against my legs.

“Used to,” I admit.

They exchange excited looks.

“Be our goalie!” someone shouts.

Before protocol can stop me, I shrug off my jacket and roll up my sleeves.

A nurse hands me the plastic mask. “Your Highness,” she says nervously.

“Just Nick. For today.”

The mask is too small. The pads barely strap around my legs. Perfect.

I step into the net.

“Alright,” I say, crouching instinctively. “Show me what you’ve got.”

The first shot comes slow and wobbly. I block it easily, tapping the ball aside, yet make a very dramatic save. (Sometimes, drama is good.)

Cheers erupt like we’re in a packed arena.

A girl with a shaved head slaps the puck to the goal. I fall into a butterfly drop without thinking—knees down, stick flat—and laughter bursts out of me when I actually make the save.

She comes back around the next round and slings the ball to the top corner of the net. I throw my hand out but am a second late.

“Is there a teller around? Because that shot was money in the bank!” I give her a high-five.

We go on like that, the kids giving me a serious workout. I don’t have to let them win; they’re doing it all on their own. I’m sweating through my shirt, gasping for breath, leg muscles sore. It’s fabulous. For ten glorious minutes, I forget everything.

No cameras. No crown. No expectations.

Just movement. Instinct. Joy.