Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marco
Skating felt like coming home.
I pushed off from the boards, gliding into the empty practice rink, and everything in me settled.
The scrape of blades on ice—that familiar sound that had been absent for eight weeks—filled the empty arena.
Cold air bit at my face, sharp and clean and perfect.
The resistance and give of proper skating after weeks of hobbling around on crutches and a walking boot felt like rediscovering a language I’d thought I’d forgotten.
This was what I’d been missing.
“Easy,” Chuck called from the bench. “Start slow. Let’s see how the foot handles it.”
I nodded, keeping my movements controlled even though every instinct screamed to open up, to fly, to push my body the way I used to.
The yellow NO CONTACT jersey on my back felt ridiculous—I was the only one on the ice—but it was protocol.
A visible marker that I was still recovering, still not cleared for full practice.
But I was skating. Finally skating.
I took my first full lap slowly, testing the foot with each stride.
The blade bit into the ice. The angle felt right, the push-off engaged muscles that remembered this movement even after weeks of disuse and then physical therapy.
My right foot—the injured one—felt different.
Not wrong, just… aware. Like it was concentrating harder than the left, working to keep up.
No pain, though. Some stiffness, some tightness in the arch, but no pain.
Another lap, slightly faster. I pressed harder on the push-off, testing the limits. The foot held. My balance was good. The edges felt clean.
Third lap. Faster still. Now I was really skating, not just gliding. The wind against my face, the rhythmic scrape of blades, the effortless speed that came from proper technique.
By the fourth lap, I was grinning like an idiot.
“How’s it feel?” Chuck shouted.
“Good. Great!”
“Keep going. Give me some crossovers. Inside edges, test that lateral movement.”
I transitioned into crossovers around the corners, lifting the outside leg over the inside, weighting the inside edge of my blade. This was where the foot would tell me if something was wrong—the angle, the pressure, the torque on the metatarsals.
Right foot over left. The movement felt foreign after so long, but possible. Again. Smoother. Again. The muscle memory kicked in.
“Good!” Chuck called. “Now the other direction. Outside edges this time.”
I switched directions, asking the injured foot to bear more weight on the crossover. The first one was tentative—would it hold? Could I trust it?
Left foot over right. This side was easier—the injured foot on the inside, less pressure. Even so, it worked. It held.
Second one, more confident. Third one, actually smooth.
“Backward!” Chuck shouted.
I turned, skating backward now, a movement that required different muscles, different balance. My right foot wobbled slightly on the first push, uncertain of the angle. But the second was better. Third better still.
God, this felt good. Like reclaiming parts of myself that had been locked away.
“Transitions!” Chuck called. “Forward to backward, backward to forward. Nice and controlled.”
I pivoted, forward to backward. The twist engaged my core, tested my balance. My foot held. Backward to forward. Clean transition, weight distributed properly.
Again. Again. Again.
Each movement built confidence. Each successful stride reminded my body what it knew.
“Hard stops!” Chuck shouted. “This is the real test. I want to see how that foot handles the pressure of stopping.”
My heart rate kicked up. This was where it could fail. The sudden deceleration, all that force concentrated on the blade edges, the foot absorbing the impact.
I picked up speed and dug in with my left foot first—the good one. Perfect hockey stop, snow spraying from the blade.
“Other foot!” Chuck called. “Let’s see it.”
This was it. Stopping on my right skate meant all my weight, all the torque, all the pressure going through the bones that had been broken.
What if I hesitated? What if my body remembered the injury and refused to commit fully? A half-committed stop would throw me off balance, could cause me to fall, could—
Could reinjure the foot.
But I couldn’t play scared.
I accelerated again, faster this time, building momentum. At the blue line, I dug in with the right foot.
The blade caught. The foot absorbed the impact. The stop wasn’t as crisp as with my left foot—I could feel the hesitation, the muscles working harder than they should—but it got the job done.
No pain. Just effort.
“Again!” Chuck shouted. “Harder!”
I skated faster, really pushing now, and slammed into a stop with the right foot. This time, it was cleaner. The foot remembered.
“Both feet! Full hockey stop!”
I built up speed and executed a proper two-footed stop, parallel blades carving into the ice, body low and balanced. The spray of ice crystals, the sudden stillness after motion—perfect.
I looked up to find Chuck grinning.
“Not bad for your first skate in eight weeks.”
“Feels incredible.”
“Don’t get cocky. We’ve got a long way to go.” But his tone was approving. “Give me backward crossovers. Then some figure eights. I want to see that foot handle pattern work.”
I fell into the rhythm of it, the meditation of skating. Each drill built on the last. Backward crossovers—the left foot lifting and crossing, the right foot pushing underneath. Figure eights, carving smooth curves into the fresh ice, the blades leaving tracks that showed the precision of my edges.
My mind drifted as I skated, processing the past week while étienne had been gone.
Nine long days of being alone in the house—our house now, not just mine—missing him desperately.
The team had left last Monday morning. I’d kissed étienne goodbye in the doorway, watched him pull out of the garage, and then stood in the empty house wondering how I’d survive ten days without him.
We’d texted constantly. Good morning messages before I’d even gotten out of bed, updates throughout the day, goodnight texts that sometimes turned into longer conversations when neither of us could sleep.
Miss you had become our most frequent message.
The first game was Monday night against Buffalo. I’d settled on the couch with pizza and beer, watching étienne take his first shift after talking through our routine.
His skating was a little tentative, his reads half a second slow. He picked up an assist in the second period—a decent pass that Jensen converted—but he also had a turnover in the defensive zone that led to a Buffalo scoring chance.
We won 3–2, but étienne hadn’t been a major factor.
I texted him after.
Marco
Good to see you get on the board. How are you feeling?
His response came two hours later.
étienne
Okay. Not great. But better than I was.
Marco
Progress is progress.
étienne
I guess. Wish you’d been out there with me.
Marco
Me too.
étienne
Soon.
The rest of the week’s games were tight, but I was more focused on étienne than the team as a whole.
Our pregame calls were helping a little, but he was still playing just adequately—not enough to silence the trade rumors.
He had to turn this around, and soon. I couldn’t lose him now.
Not after finally telling him how I felt.
Not after having him in my home, in my bed.
If he got traded, his father would surely cut him off.
Who would étienne have left then? The thought of him alone in Boston or Toronto made my gut twist. He needed me as much as I needed him.
“Marco!” Chuck’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Let’s test some lateral movement. I want quick feet. Heel-to-heel slides across the blue line.”
I skated to the blue line and started the drill—quick lateral movements, pushing off one foot then the other, staying low, keeping my edges sharp. The injured foot had to work hard for this one, the lateral pressure different from forward skating.
First pass across the line was shaky. Second was better. By the third, I’d found the rhythm.
“Good!” Chuck called. “Now add some stick work. I want to see you handling a puck while moving laterally.”
He tossed a puck onto the ice. I scooped it up with my blade and started the drill again, this time stickhandling while sliding laterally. Heel to heel, quick feet, puck on my blade, eyes up.
This was more like real hockey. This was what I’d been missing.
The puck felt good on my stick. The weight of it, the sound of it tapping against the blade, the control of moving it exactly where I wanted it to go.
I was a hockey player. This was who I was. The injury had tried to take that away, but it hadn’t succeeded.
“Last drill!” Chuck called. “Figure skating. I want clean edges, proper form. Show me that foot can handle the full range of motion.”
I transitioned into figure skating patterns—inside edges, outside edges, smooth curves and tight turns. Skating that looked effortless but required perfect balance and control.
My left foot traced smooth arcs on the ice, the blade holding its edge perfectly. Right foot, same precision. The symmetry was returning.
I pushed harder, leaning into the turns, really testing the ankle strength and flexibility. The foot was tired now—I could feel it working harder than the left, muscles compensating for weeks of disuse—but it was holding up.
Thirty minutes in, Chuck waved me over.
I skated to the bench, breathing hard, savoring the good burn of real exertion. I wasn’t at full capacity yet, but I was back to working on cardio at the facility.
“Off,” Chuck said, gesturing at my skates.
I sat and unlaced, pulled off the skate and sock. Chuck examined the foot carefully, pressing along the metatarsals, checking range of motion.
“Any pain?”
“No. Just tired.”
“That’s normal. Swelling?”
“A little. Not much.”
“How did it feel out there?”
“Fantastic. Strong.” I met his eyes. “When can I do full practice?”