Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JACKO
The cold hits like an old friend.
Not the kind you laugh with. The kind who’s seen you bleed. Who’s stood beside you on the worst days and never said a word. The kind that doesn’t need to.
The chill of the rink sinks through my gear as I step onto the ice for warmup, shoulder rolling with that familiar weight. There’s still a pinch when I stretch too far, but it’s not sharp anymore, just a whisper of where I’ve been.
The boys are already circling. Murphy tosses me a grin as I join the drill, and Dylan gives me a stick tap as I skate past.
“Look who’s back from his Bake Off sabbatical,” Ollie shouts, wheeling around at centre.
I snort. “Keep chirping. You’ll be eating fondant and regret.”
Coach blows the whistle, and the warmup stretches into drills.
Simple, familiar, easy. The kind of game night you dream of after weeks on the injured list. The other team, Bristol, are scattered and slow, jerseys hanging loose like they just pulled them on for the first time.
No structure. No rhythm. Half their line changes look like a drunken conga line.
I love it.
Not because it’ll be an easy win, though it will be, but because it’s a clean way back in. No pressure. No one gunning for my shoulder like a target. Just hockey.
The anthem plays, and I close my eyes for a breath. Let the roar of the crowd roll over me. I’m not on the top line tonight, they’re easing me in, but when the puck drops, my legs remember.
God, I missed this.
The glide, the bite of my blades on the ice. The crash of a clean hit. The hollow thump of the puck off the boards. I didn’t realise how much my body was starving for it until I was back here, heart hammering in my throat, everything else stripped away.
We’re up by three goals by the second period. Murphy’s in rare form, fast, smooth, playing like he’s got nothing to prove but everything to show. The crowd loves him. Hell, we all do when he’s like this.
Then he scores.
It’s textbook. Ollie threads it low between two defensemen, and Murphy picks it up, turns on a dime, wrists it clean past the goalie’s glove side.
The arena erupts.
Murphy doesn’t celebrate like usual. No fist pump. No leap into the boards.
Instead, he skates straight to the plexiglass, slows to a glide, and presses his glove to his mouth before blowing a kiss to the stands.
I follow his line of sight. Sophie’s there, front row, with a very visible baby bump under her Raptors hoodie. She’s beaming. Glowing, actually. One hand over her stomach, the other raised in a wave. She looks like the whole damn world just handed her joy on a platter.
Murphy taps the glass with his glove once, then turns back toward the bench. Calm. Grounded.
I don’t know why it hits me the way it does.
Maybe because I’ve been skating around in circles for weeks, trying to pretend I’m fine. Maybe because every time I lace up, I pretend this game is enough. That the ice is my whole life.
But tonight, for the first time, it doesn’t feel like enough.
Because Murphy has Sophie. Dylan’s got Mia, and Ollie’s practically curled around some girl in a miniskirt up in the VIP box, probably getting her number written on his stick tape.
And me?
I’ve got my shoulder brace. A lumpy protein bar. And the faint memory of Maya’s laugh lingering like sugar on my skin.
I shouldn’t care. I’ve never been the guy who plays for the crowd. Never looked for signs in the bleachers or counted on anyone to be there when the buzzer sounds.
But tonight, it stings.
When the final whistle blows and we leave the ice with a 5–1 win, I force the grin on my face. High-fives, helmet bumps, towel slaps. The boys are buzzing, loud and cocky, and the locker room is a thrum of victory.
“You moved good out there,” Dylan says, dragging his pads off one by one.
“Shoulder held up?” Coach asks as he walks past.
“Feels fine,” I lie. It’s stiff, but manageable.
Murphy sinks onto the bench next to me, still flushed from the game, hair curling damp over his forehead.
“She made it,” he says, nudging me.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah. Told her not to if she was tired, but,” He shrugs, and there’s something soft in his voice I’ve never heard before. “She didn’t want to miss it.”
I nod, but it’s hard to keep the smile on my face.
Because no one came for me.
Not that they should’ve. I haven’t earned that. Haven’t opened myself up enough to let someone in. Not properly. And Maya’s got enough on her plate without worrying about showing up to a rink full of strangers just to watch me knock people over.
Still.
I hang back after the others start peeling out toward the showers, feeling the high of the game slip away like steam off the ice.
Murphy glances at me while unlacing his skates. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I pause. “It was a good night.”
He nods, then taps the bench between us. “But?”
I exhale. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says gently. “You were flying out there. Then you got quiet. What’s up?”
I rub the back of my neck. “It’s just… watching you skate to Sophie. Seeing how she looked at you. Like you hung the stars or something.”
Murphy doesn’t gloat. He just waits.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Made me realise I’ve got no one in the stands.”
Murphy nods, thoughtful. “That’s allowed to sting.”
I look at him sideways. “When did you get all emotionally literate?”
“Sophie makes me read therapy blogs.”
I laugh, and some of the weight in my chest lifts.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve got someone though, don’t you? Maya?”
I go still.
“She’s not,” I start, then stop. “It’s not like that. Not yet.”
Murphy gives me a look. “You’re telling me the guy who hand-decorated gingerbread men for a girl isn’t in deep?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s early. She’s been through hell. I’m not rushing her.”
“I’m not saying rush,” he says. “Just maybe bring her. Let her see this part of you.”
I shake my head. “Too soon.”
“Maybe,” he says, standing to grab his towel. “Or maybe you’re just scared.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just claps my shoulder and heads to the showers.
And I sit there a little longer, alone in the emptying room, wondering if he’s right.