Page 82 of Slapshot Baby

Not that I plan on ever falling, but it would be nice to see Ava’s reaction.

"I'd pay real money to watch you fall,” she says. “Front row. Popcorn. The works."

"Popcorn at a rink is a crime."

"Everything at a rink is a crime except the hockey. Even the hockey is questionable sometimes."

“Yeah, right. When will I see you today?”

She sighs. “Just got a few more clients to see. I’ll have to see you in between appointments.”

“Are you complaining about having too much work?”

“Nah. That's my bread and butter. I can never have too much of it. See you later, Kai.”

“Sure, call me when you’re ready to come over.”

I drive to the facility, thinking about how the ice will feel under my blades.

The locker room is half full when I walk in.

The smell hits first, familiar and grounding. Tape adhesive, equipment sanitizer, the faint tang of sweat baked into concrete.

Wyatt spots me from across the room, his hair sticking up. His jersey is half on and twisted.

"Cap's back. Everybody act normal." He turns to Theo. "Theo, stop crying."

"I'm lacing my skates," Theo says.

"Tears of joy. I see them."

"Those are my eyes, Wyatt."

I open my stall. My gear is exactly where it should be. Someone cleaned and maintained it while I was gone.

I smile, pulling on the base layer. The compression fabric is familiar against my skin, the specific tightness across the shoulders, the way it sits against my ribs.

The pads go on next. Shinguards, then the pants. My fingers work the buckles and straps.

Easton arrives and slides into his stall without a word. He glances at me, takes in the gear, and gives a single nod.

Jordan taps my stall twice with his stick on the way past.

I lace my skates. The pull of the laces through the eyelets, the graduated tightness from toe to ankle, the final knot that locks everything into place.

I've done this ten thousand times. My hands know the tension before my brain calculates it.

Helmet on. Gloves. Stick.

My fingers find their natural position on the shaft without adjustment.

The tunnel to the ice is cold. Each step closer drops the temperature. My breath starts to fog.

Then I'm through the gate and my blades touch the surface and the world makes sense again.

The first stride is instinct. Push, glide, the blade biting into the fresh sheet. The cold air fills my lungs and scrubs everything clean.

I'm home.