The Community Rink
Chapter twelve
Annette
Jamie writes in his notebook while he waits for me.
He sits near the windows at the edge of the therapy gym, his sling finally gone but his left arm still held close to his body out of habit. The small black notebook rests on his thigh, steadied by one hand while he writes with the other.
Only a few words.
Then he closes it. Not hurriedly. Not because he sees me watching.
He simply slips the elastic band around the cover and places it beside his water bottle as though writing in it has become as routine as checking the time.
I smile before turning toward the supply cabinet.
He kept it.
Two weeks ago, the notebook was only an idea. A way to give Jamie's constant need for goals, measurements, and proof of progress somewhere else to go.
Today’s Win.
Someone I Encouraged.
Something I’m Grateful For.
Nothing grand. That had been the point. Jamie had spent years measuring himself through goals, victories, statistics, and expectations. The notebook gives him a different scoreboard.
One where lifting his arm another inch matters.
One where encouraging Ethan counts.
And one where coffee with someone can become gratitude.
I still don’t know whether he has written my name again. I don’t ask. Some things deserve privacy.
“Good morning.”
Jamie’s voice reaches me from across the room. I glance over my shoulder.
“Good morning.”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You were.”
“I work in rehabilitation. We’re allowed occasional optimism.”
His gaze drops briefly toward the notebook. When he looks up again, his smile is faint but knowing. “Convenient answer.”
“It’s also true.”
“Those are the dangerous ones.”
I point toward the treatment area. “Table three.” He stands without complaint. That’s progress too.
A month ago, every instruction became a negotiation. Today, he picks up his water and follows me across the gym. His gait is nearly normal now. The bruising has faded. He no longer protects his ribs with every turn, though I still catch him moving carefully when he thinks no one notices.
The shoulder remains the larger challenge. Healing well. Moving slowly. Testing every ounce of patience he owns.
I update his pain score, check the surgical site, and guide him through the opening movements. His range has improved since Monday. Not dramatically, but enough that I notice before I look at the numbers.
“Again,” I say.
Jamie lifts his left arm carefully. His jaw tightens near the top of the motion, but he doesn’t force it. He lowers it under control.
Better. “Once more.”
He repeats the movement. A fraction higher. When he finishes, he looks at me instead of immediately attempting another repetition.
“Enough?”
I check the measurement. “Enough.”
He nods. No argument. No extra attempt when my back turns. No insistence that one more cannot hurt.
I record the improvement. “You gained four degrees.”
He takes a drink of water. “Only four?”
I look up. His expression stays serious for half a second. Then the corner of his mouth moves. He’s teasing.
“That’s almost convincing.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Clearly.”
He looks toward the notebook waiting beside the window. “Four degrees still goes under today’s win.”
“Yes, it does.”
A month ago, he would have called it nothing. Today, he claims it before disappointment can. That might be the larger victory.
We move to the cable station where the resistance is low enough to protect the repair but sufficient to begin reminding the muscles how to work together. Jamie listens as I demonstrate.
No interrupting. No bargaining. And no attempt to double the repetitions.
I should probably check his temperature.
“What?” he asks.
I realize I’ve been staring. “You’re being unusually cooperative.”
“I’m always cooperative.”
“You tried to leave a hospital room without assistance less than twenty-four hours after surgery.”
“I was highly medicated.”
“You were barely medicated.”
He considers that. “Temporary lapse in judgment.”
“You also carried your breakfast tray down the hall with three fractured ribs.”
“The staff looked busy.”
“And tried to shovel snow after being specifically told not to.”
“I considered shoveling snow.”
“You put on boots.”
“I like to be prepared.”
I fold my arms. He laughs. The sound is easier now.
It no longer catches against healing ribs or ends in a wince.
His face changes when he laughs. The careful control falls away.
The captain disappears. For a few seconds, he is simply a man enjoying a joke.
I like that man. The thought arrives without warning.
I turn toward the equipment rack before it can settle too deeply.
“Three sets,” I say. “Ten repetitions.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glance back. “Don’t push it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He would. We both know it. But today he completes exactly what I assign. Not nine. Not eleven. Ten.
When the session ends, his sweatshirt is damp along the collar and fatigue shows around his eyes, but he isn’t defeated by it. He picks up the notebook and writes something before slipping it into his coat pocket.
“What did today earn?” I ask.
He looks at me. “You said it was private.”
“It is.”
“That sounded suspiciously like a question.”
“It was professional curiosity.”
He studies me with an expression I’ve learned means that he’s deciding how much truth to offer.
“Four degrees.”
I smile. “Good choice.”
“And stopping at ten.”
My smile grows. “Excellent choice.”
“I knew you’d appreciate that one.”
I collect the bands and return them to the rack. Behind me, Jamie clears his throat. “Do you have ten extra minutes?”
I turn. He stands near the end of the treatment table; a coat draped over his good arm. Something in his expression is almost tentative.
Jamie is rarely tentative. “Is this related to your rehabilitation?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you attempting something prohibited?”
“No.”
“Does it involve snow shovels?”
“Not even a little.”
I wait. His smile appears. “I promised someone I’d stop by.”
“And you need medical supervision?”
“I need a ride.”
That surprises me. “Where’s Colby?”
“Picking Jillie up from school. Coach has practice. I had a car service scheduled, but the rink is only a few blocks away.”
“The rink.”
“A community rink.” My curiosity wins before caution finishes presenting its argument.
“Ten minutes?”
“Maybe fifteen.”
“That isn’t what you asked.”
“I was easing you into it.”
I shake my head, but I’m already reaching for my coat. “Fifteen. But twenty would be safer.”
“For whom?”
He smiles. “Me.”
I should say no.
He is still my patient. We have professional boundaries. A promised stop at a neighborhood rink has nothing to do with his treatment plan. But his appointment is finished. The rink is nearby. And I want to know where Jamie Walker goes when he isn’t at an arena, a hospital, or his quiet cabin.
“Fifteen,” I repeat. He opens the clinic door for me with his right hand. “I’ll work quickly.”
“That phrase worries me.”
“It should.”
***
The community rink sits behind an elementary school on the older east side of Frostholm.
The building is squat and weathered, constructed of faded brick with a blue metal roof and a hand-painted sign above the entrance.
MILLER COMMUNITY ICE CENTER
A row of snow-covered bicycles leans against the side wall despite the cold. Hockey sticks fill a rack near the doors. The parking lot holds more patched-up sedans than luxury vehicles, and half the children entering carry equipment that has clearly belonged to someone else first.
Jamie’s face changes the moment we arrive. Not dramatically. The tightness around his eyes simply eases.
“You come here often?”
“Not as often as I should.”
He opens the passenger door before I can reach for the handle. “You’re still protecting everyone from basic tasks?”
“Old habits.”
I step out. “You’re supposed to be breaking those.”
“One day at a time.” He says it lightly, but I hear the truth beneath it.
Inside, the rink smells like cold air, rubber mats, sharpened steel, and hot chocolate. Parents crowd into worn wooden bleachers along one side. Children weave across the ice in mismatched jerseys while two volunteer coaches attempt to organize them into lines.
Nobody notices Jamie at first. He seems pleased by that. He stands beside the boards, watching a little boy make three determined attempts to stop without falling. The fourth ends with the child sitting hard on the ice.
Jamie smiles. The boy pushes himself up, tries again. Then a young girl near center ice turns toward the boards. Her eyes widen. “Captain Jamie!”
Every helmet on the rink swivels in our direction. The response is immediate. “Captain Jamie!”
“He’s here!”
“Jamie!”
Children abandon their lines and race toward the gate in a wave of skates, sticks, and excited voices. The coaches don’t even try to stop them.
Jamie braces himself instinctively, protecting his healing shoulder as the first group of children reach him. “Easy,” he says, laughing. “Nobody takes out the injured guy.” A small girl in a purple helmet throws both arms around his waist.
His right arm circles her shoulders while his left stays carefully protected.
“Hey, Sophie.”
She pulls back. “You remembered me.”
“You scored your first goal last month.”
Her mouth falls open. “My dad told you?” “I was here.”
“You saw it?” “I did.”
Her entire face lights. Jamie crouches carefully until they are eye to eye, one hand braced against the boards for balance. “Top corner.”
She nods so hard, her helmet shifts. “I practiced.”
“It showed.”
A boy wearing goalie pads shuffles closer. “Captain Jamie, I got new gloves.”
Jamie examines them with complete seriousness. “Those are excellent.”
“They’re secondhand.”
“Most of my first equipment was secondhand.” The boy looks surprised. “Really?”
“Best glove I ever owned had somebody else’s name written inside.”
The child grins. Another boy holds up a math worksheet pulled out of his pocket. “I got a B.” Jamie takes the paper. “You were aiming for a C.”
“I know.”
“So that’s a win.” The child nods, proud enough to stand taller in his skates.
I remain a few steps away. Watching. Jamie remembers names. Birthdays. Positions. A lost tooth. A spelling test. He knows which child was afraid of skating backward and which one wanted to become a goalie despite being the shortest person on the ice.
This is not the polished kindness of a celebrity making an appearance. There are no cameras. Jamie isn’t performing. He belongs here. The little girl in the purple helmet reaches toward his sling-less arm. “Are you better now?”
“Getting there.”
“Can you skate?”
“Not yet.”
Her smile disappears. Jamie notices. He always notices. “But I can watch you.” She considers that. “Will you?”
“I was hoping you’d let me.” The smile returns. She hurries toward the gate before stopping. “I learned crossovers.”
“Then I need to see them.”
Within minutes, the children return to the ice. Jamie stands at the boards, calling encouragement as they attempt drills. He doesn’t offer corrections unless a coach asks. He doesn’t turn the attention toward himself. He simply watches every child as though their next tiny victory matters.
A woman with silver hair approaches me carrying two paper cups of hot chocolate. “You must be Annette.”
I accept the cup before realizing what she said. “How do you know my name?”
She smiles. “Jamie mentioned his rehabilitation specialist might bring him.”
I glance toward the boards. He is helping the young goalie tighten the strap on one glove using only his right hand.
The woman offers her hand. “Evelyn Reynolds. I manage the rink.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re the one making sure he behaves?”
“I attempt to.”
Mrs. Reynolds laughs. “Good luck.”
“I need it.”
We watch Jamie for a moment. The purple-helmeted girl completes a shaky crossover near the boards. Jamie lifts his fist in celebration. She beams.
“He’s been coming here for years,” Mrs. Reynolds says.
“Since before he became captain?”
“Long before.”
A young boy skates past wearing a jersey two sizes too large. Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze follows him. “Most people think the equipment program and skating scholarships come from anonymous donors.”
I look at her. “They don’t?”
Her expression turns almost mischievous. “They come through the Walker Foundation.”
The name catches. “Walker Foundation?”
Before she can explain, Jamie turns from the boards. “Mrs. Reynolds, how’s Noah enjoying goalie camp?” She looks toward him. Then at me. A knowing smile touches her face. “He loves it.”
“Good. He worked hard for that spot.”
“He did.”
Lowering her voice, Mrs. Reynolds adds, “Jamie would rather the kids be remembered than the person who helped them.”
Walker Foundation. I store the name alongside everything else I am beginning to learn about him.
The notebook. The cabin. The community rink. The children who race toward him because he remembers their report cards and first goals. Each piece reveals a man much larger than the public version printed across headlines. And far quieter.
I look toward Jamie again. For years, the world has called Jamie Walker extraordinary because he plays hockey. Standing beside a neighborhood rink with lukewarm hot chocolate in my hands, I begin to understand how little hockey has to do with it.