Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JACKO
The locker room still smells like sweat and victory from the last game, and the sting of menthol from the physio benches cuts through it all.
My gear’s drying in the corner, and I’ve just come off a full-ice drill that reminded my legs they’ve only recently recovered.
The burn in my shoulder is manageable, but I’m aware of it. Always aware of it.
Murphy slaps me on the back with a towel as I sit on the bench, gulping water.
“You’re looking steadier,” he says, tugging off his own pads. “Could almost pass for a real player again.”
“Cheers, mate. Coming from the second-best forward on the team, that means a lot.”
He laughs and leans against the lockers, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose. “So what’s got you smiling like you won the bloody lottery today?”
I hesitate. Then I say it. Quietly. “I’m taking Lila out on the ice today.”
Murphy whistles low. “Maya’s letting you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She said yes.”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t joke. Just studies me for a beat, then sinks onto the bench beside me.
“That’s big,” he says.
“It is,” I say. “Feels like we’ve turned a corner perhaps.”
He nods, then leans his head back against the cool tile. “You still thinking what I think you’re thinking? About Maya’s past?”
I exhale. The words have been sitting like stones in my gut for weeks.
“I think her ex hurt her,” I say. “Not just emotionally. There’s something in the way she flinches sometimes. The way she apologises before she speaks. It’s small, but it’s always there.”
Murphy’s jaw ticks. He’s about to be a father. That changes how he hears things.
“And Lila?” he asks softly.
“She’s bright. Funny. But she’s learned to read rooms like an adult. And she sticks close to Maya like she’s afraid of what’ll happen if she doesn’t.”
We sit in silence for a long while. Teammates and trainers bustle around us, but for once, neither of us moves to join them.
“I don’t want to push her,” I say. “I just want her to feel safe. Both of them.”
Murphy finally claps a hand to my shoulder. “You’re doing everything right. Just keep showing up.”
I nod, throat tight.
He stands. “Come on. Let’s find the tiniest skates in the bloody kingdom.”
The Raptors’ equipment room is a disorganised treasure cave. Rows of sticks. Crates of pucks. Gloves that smell like death and broken dreams.
We start digging through the shelves, Murphy tossing me items as we go.
“Helmet,” he says, chucking a pink one. “Small enough for a bobblehead.”
“Elbow pads the size of tacos,” I mutter, catching them. “Excellent.”
“Knee pads. Gloves. You’re going to turn this kid into a walking marshmallow.”
“That’s the idea.”
We find a pair of tiny white skates with rainbow laces tucked in a dusty bin near the back. Murphy holds them up like a trophy.
“Got ‘em,” he grins. “And bonus, there’s no blood stains.”
I laugh, nerves buzzing under the surface.
She’s coming. They’re both coming. Soon.
I line everything up by the rink’s edge. The arena’s quiet, lights on, ice freshly resurfaced, and the low hum of the refrigeration system echoing through the space. It feels peaceful here. Like somewhere beginnings can happen.
Then I hear it.
“Mummy! Mummy, look! Bear’s here! He’s really here!”
Lila barrels through the door at full speed, coat flapping behind her like a cape, Maya hurrying after her, breathless.
Lila reaches me and slams into my legs, arms flung around my thighs.
“You’re here!” she says like it’s a miracle.
I crouch down. “Always am, Little Miss.”
She giggles, eyes wide as she sees the mountain of gear behind me. “Is all that mine?!”
“If it fits,” I say, “then yeah. We’ll turn you into a professional wobbler in no time.”
Maya smiles, tucked back near the entrance, arms folded. She looks tired. Braced. But she meets my eyes and nods. It’s permission. Trust.
And I don’t take it lightly.
I get Lila suited up while Maya watches from the stands, close enough to swoop in, far enough to let us find our own rhythm. The helmet slips over her curls and she giggles when I tighten the chin strap.
“I look like a jellybean,” she declares.
“The fiercest jellybean I’ve ever seen,” I say.
She steps onto the mat near the ice, and I take her hand gently.
“You ready, Jellybean?”
She nods. “Let’s go.”
The first step is chaos. Her feet go out from under her immediately and she squeals, flailing.
“I’m flying!”
“You’re not!” I say, catching her under the arms just in time. “You’re falling.”
“Same thing!”
I laugh and lift her gently back up, her skates wobbling under her. She clutches my jacket with both hands, eyes wide but sparkling.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “It’s slippy!”
“It is,” I say. “But I’ve got you.”
She beams. “You’re strong like a tree.”
We inch our way forward, baby steps, gliding slowly across the ice. Her laugh rings out every time her feet slide. She’s terrible at it. But she doesn’t care.
I wish I could bottle the sound of her laughter.
At one point, she lets go of my hand to try it solo. Her arms flail. Her knees go loose.
“Jellybean…”
She topples sideways with a dramatic yelp and I dive, catching her mid-fall before she hits the ice.
I hold her close, my heart hammering against my ribcage.
“You okay?” I whisper, voice rough.
She nods. Then says, very quietly, “You didn’t shout.”
My stomach drops. “Why would I shout, Jellybean?”
“’Cause Daddy did,” she says, still nestled against my chest. “He shouted really loud when Mummy fell. She cried. And then I cried too.”
My hands go still.
Maya’s ex.
I swallow hard. “You remember that?”
She nods against my chest. “I don’t like when people fall. Makes my tummy hurt.”
I pull her in tighter, gently rocking her.
“You know what?” I say, voice thick. “Falling’s okay. Everyone falls. What matters is someone’s there to help you back up.”
She peers at me, eyes shining. “You help me?”
“Every time.”
Her smile wobbles, but she nods. “Okay.”
Maya’s by the glass now, watching, frozen in place. Her hands are clutched tightly in front of her, and there’s a sheen in her eyes she probably doesn’t realise I can see.
I lift Lila into my arms and skate slowly toward the boards.
“She okay?” Maya asks, voice soft and raw.
“She’s brilliant,” I say. “And braver than most grown-ups I know.”
Maya swipes her cheek. “She told you something?”
“Yeah.”
She nods, eyes full of ache and something else; fear maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
“She remembers more than I hoped,” she whispers. “She was so little.”
“She feels safe enough to talk now,” I say. “That’s down to you.”
She shakes her head. “It’s down to you, too. She doesn’t laugh like that with anyone else.”
I glance at Lila, who’s now curled into me like a koala, cheek pressed to my shoulder.
“She’s got good taste,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Maya laughs wetly. Then, after a pause she says, “Thank you. For catching her.”
“I always will.”
Her eyes meet mine. Something shifts there. Something big.
And I know, without her saying it, that she’s starting to believe it.
Lila’s warm against my chest, her breath fogging the collar of my jacket.
She’s still holding on tight, fingers curled into the fabric like little anchors.
I can feel her heart beating fast, like a hummingbird’s.
She’s quiet now in that way kids are when they’re not sure what comes next.
Waiting to see if the fall changed everything.
I glance toward the ice, then back down at her.
“Hey, Jellybean,” I say softly. “What do you think? Want to try again?”
She stiffens a little. “But I fell.”
“You did,” I say. “And I caught you.”
She looks up at me, her eyes big and uncertain. “What if I fall again?”
“Then I’ll catch you again,” I say without missing a beat. “Every time.”
She studies me, like she’s weighing the truth of it. Like maybe no one’s ever told her that before and meant it.
I crouch down with her still in my arms, until we’re back at ice level. “You’re already the bravest skater I know. But falling once doesn’t mean you stop trying. It just means you’ve started.”
Her bottom lip sticks out. “Falling’s not fun.”
“No,” I say. “But getting back up? That’s the part that makes you strong.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she whispers, “Will you hold both my hands?”
“Both,” I promise.
“And go slow?”
“Like treacle in winter.”
She snorts. “That’s silly.”
“Only the best kind of silly.”
I help her to her feet again, making sure every strap and buckle is still snug. She grabs both my hands like tiny vices and takes one tentative step onto the ice. Her knees wobble immediately.
“I’m doing it!” she says, then falters.
But I’ve already caught her.
She giggles again, a little less shaky this time. “You do always catch me.”
“Told you I would,” I murmur.
We inch forward again. One slow, sliding step. Then another. Lila is smiling now, not the giddy excitement from before, but something softer. Braver. Earned.
I glance up at Maya through the plexiglass. She’s sitting now, hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes never leaving us.
I think she knows what this is.
Not just skating.
Not just a game.
It’s a promise.
One I’ll keep every day, every fall, every wobble.
As long as they’ll let me.