37. Niall
CHAPTER 37
NIALL
I arrived at the arena earlier than usual, the familiar scent of ice and tape settling something inside me. The air held a crisp bite, not enough to make me shiver, but enough to remind me that winter was creeping closer. The distant hum of the cooling system filled the quiet space, broken only by the occasional creak of the boards shifting and settling. No skates on the ice yet, no voices echoing from the locker room—just stillness.
I liked it this way.
This place had always been my refuge, the one constant when everything else shifted. No matter how much my life had changed, the ice was always there, waiting. But today, I wasn’t here to escape. I was here to face something I had spent three years avoiding.
I found an empty corner in the stands, away from the distractions of the world, and pulled out a notebook and pen. The paper stared back at me, blank and waiting.
My therapist had given me assignments over the years. Write down a memory. Name the things I lost. Say what I wish I could have said. I ignored most of them. I wasn’t sure why this one felt different. Maybe because, for the first time, I wasn’t just thinking about myself.
Losing my parents had changed everything. It had gutted me, sent my life spinning in a direction I never saw coming. And now, years later, I was standing at another turning point. I could feel it, this shift inside me. I had to face what I’d been running from—not just for myself, but for the person who’d come into my life like a ray of goddamn sunshine and made me want more.
I wanted to be the kind of man Eli deserved.
I tightened my grip on the pen. This was harder than I expected. But I had promised myself—no holding back.
Mom and Dad,
I don’t even know where to start. Three years, and I’ve never said any of this out loud. I’ve never let myself. Because if I did, it meant admitting that you were really gone.
I miss you. God, I miss you so much it still feels like I can’t breathe sometimes. I spent so long pretending I was fine and that hockey was enough to fill the empty space you left behind. But the truth is, I still look for you in the stands before every home game. Even when I know you won’t be there.
I wish I’d said thank you more. For every ride to practice, every game you never missed, every night spent playing video games or building model ships. For making me feel like I was enough, just as I was.
But I also need to say I’m sorry. Sorry for shutting down after you were gone. Sorry for thinking that if I let myself be happy, I was betraying you somehow. Sorry for carrying this guilt, as if I could have done something—anything—to change what happened.
I was so lonely. I played in arenas filled with thousands of fans, led my team as captain, yet I felt like I was walking through life alone. When you left this earth, you took your light with you, and I didn’t know how to find my way without it.
But then, something changed. I met someone. His name is Eli. And he makes me smile, really smile, in a way I haven’t in years. He’s this ridiculous ball of sunshine, and somehow, he’s breaking through all the darkness I didn’t even realize I was still living in. I think you’d like him. No, I know you would.
I don’t know if you can hear this or if you can see me. But I hope, somehow, you know that I’m trying. I love you. I’ll always love you.
I set the pen down, my breath shaky. My fingers trembled as I folded the letter, slipping it into my bag. A lump sat in my throat, but the weight pressing on my chest felt lighter. Not gone, but lighter.
Practice was tough. We were gearing up for a home game against Arizona, a team that played as aggressively as we did. The last twelve games had been an even split—six wins, six losses—so this was a battle for momentum.
I was locked in, focused, but something had shifted. The walls I’d built weren’t as rigid. Maybe no one else noticed, but Roman did. I caught him watching me between drills, a flicker of something thoughtful in his expression. I ignored it and kept my head down, but I knew he saw it.
It wasn’t until after practice, in the locker room, that I felt the change the most. Usually, I was the first to leave, showering and heading out before the guys got too chatty. Not today.
Instead, I stuck around, stretching with the team, letting the energy of the room settle around me. The locker room had always been a mix of chaos and routine—the scrape of skates on the rubber flooring, the hiss of steam from the showers, the low thud of music playing from someone’s speaker. I let it all sink in instead of shutting it out.
Hunter was teasing Nico about something, and Micah was already half-dressed, rolling his eyes at them both. Logan muttered about people leaving their gear scattered, reorganizing everything in his stall without looking up. It was the same scene as always, but today, I wasn’t just an observer on the outside looking in.
“Six and six,” I said, mostly to myself but loud enough for the guys to hear.
Roman looked up from unwrapping his stick tape, a knowing smirk on his face. “You’ve been stewing on that, huh?”
I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “You wouldn’t survive inside my head, Roman.”
“Please,” he said, stretching out his legs. “I’ve seen you overthink a defensive read in real time. I think I’d manage.”
Micah snorted. “It’s been sitting at six-six since the last time we played them.”
“Exactly.” I straightened up, rolling my shoulders out. “This weekend’s the tiebreaker. Time to stop trading wins and actually take control.”
Roman shook his head, grinning. “Man, you really love making it dramatic.”
“Just stating facts,” I said, instead of shutting down the conversation like I usually would. The air between us stayed easy, unforced. It felt... good.
I glanced across the room at Hunter, who had been relentless in scrimmage today, his speed giving the defense trouble all practice. “Hunter, you were flying out there. Arizona’s defense is gonna hate you.”
He grinned. “They already do.”
Micah snorted. “They hate all of us.”
“Fair,” I said, then turned toward our goalie. “And you, Hayes? Think you’ll survive if we shake up their game plan?”
He shot me a flat look as he adjusted his gear. “I’d rather they stick to the script, but I’ll be ready when they don’t.”
A small ripple of laughter passed through the group, and something in my chest loosened. This—this was what I’d been missing. Not just the game, not just the wins, but the team. The connection. I’d been here all along, but now, for the first time in a long time, I was really part of it.
I caught Roman watching me again, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly, like he understood something I wasn’t ready to put into words. Maybe he did. Maybe he saw the way I lingered, the way I let myself be part of the team instead of just leading it.
The weight of everything—grief, pressure, the loneliness I never let myself admit—hadn’t disappeared. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like I was carrying it alone.