Chapter 14 Hannah
FOURTEEN
HANNAH
Tierney
Miss you, Han.
How’s everything going?
Me
Today is day one in my attempt to find the magic in skating again.
Tierney
!!!!!
So excited for you.
The rink is less fun without you there, but I’m proud of you for taking care of yourself.
Me
Catch up after Thanksgiving?
Tierney
Please! Sending you a big hug and lots of love today.
Me
Thanks, T. I need it.
With two coffees in my hands, I take a seat on the players’ bench, utterly exhausted. I tossed and turned all night, wondering how this session is going to go. It’s an unconventional approach to burnout, but I’m so desperate to get to the root of my problems, I’m willing to try anything.
That includes enlisting the help of the hockey coach I hooked up with to make it happen.
Brody texted me early this morning to change our meeting location from the practice facility to the arena where the Stars play their home games, and I glance up at the championship banners proudly hanging from the rafters.
Two of them were won under his helm, and if anyone knows anything about skating, it’s the guy who brought a franchise back from the brink of death.
“Good morning.” Brody walks my way in a hoodie, loose athletic shorts, and a backward hat. He’s holding his skates in one hand, and there’s a whistle looped around his neck that rests against the center of his chest. “You’re here early.”
Still hot as fucking hell, I muse to myself, and I take a sip of my drink—burning my tongue in the process—to get the thought out of my head.
“Morning. Blame the nerves for my promptness.” I hold up his coffee. “I come bearing caffeine.”
“Thank fuck. We were delayed out of Minnesota because of weather, and I didn’t make it home until almost three.” He yawns and accepts the drink, taking a sip from the cup. “Tastes great.”
“I can’t tell you how much pressure I felt to get your order right.”
“There doesn’t need to be any pressure. It’s not like I would’ve thrown it at you if it was wrong.” He huffs, fighting back a smile. “Probably would’ve screamed, though.”
“I asked the very nice barista if she could add an extra shot of espresso, and she was happy to oblige.”
“Crisis averted.” Brody looks at the ice, then at me. “How do you want this session to run?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m open to ideas.”
“You’re very clearly not a hockey player.”
“That’s a bold assumption.” I scoff. “Grant used to hit pucks at me so he could practice his slap shots.”
“I hope you were wearing the right gear.”
“Just a helmet, but I turned out okay.”
“I’d say so.” He moves to the bench, sitting next to me. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to get out of our time together?” he asks after another sip of his drink.
I trace the crease of my cup. “Talk about an interrogation.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Just might make things easier if I know your end goal.”
“Permission to be totally honest with you?”
“Probably would be best if we implemented that going forward.”
“And you won’t judge me?”
“Never.” Brody shifts his body, knee pressing into mine. “We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Friends.”
“Friends tell each other shit. What’s on your mind, Everett?”
“Okay, Saunders. Buckle up. For the entirety of my childhood and most of my adult life, skating has been my source of joy. I’m fucking good at it.
I’ve won competitions. I’ve been people’s favorite athlete.
I’ve represented our country at the highest stages.
Even when I was no longer winning, I was still glad to be out there.
But recently, something has changed. The magic isn’t there.
I’m struggling mentally and physically. Everything exhausts me.
” I sip my coffee, giving myself a second to think.
“I know how privileged it is to have access to the resources and coaches I do. That privilege also brings high expectations. Expectations I’m no longer meeting because I’m not having fun.
And trust me—I know how stupid that sounds.
Do paramedics have fun at their job when they’re resuscitating someone after a heart attack?
Do oncologists have fun telling families their loved ones have cancer?
Of course not.” His knee is still there.
Steady, calm. The reassuring presence I didn’t know I needed to keep talking.
“So why can’t I get over myself, go out there, and perform like everyone wants me to for a few more years before I officially retire? ”
“There’s your problem. You’re worrying what other people think. I haven’t given a fuck in years, and life is great.”
I burst out laughing. “And if I want to give a fuck?”
“You try to find the joy. In the little things. In the big moments. Under all that stress and pressure and strain from the outside world, you need to shut it down and do what makes you happy.”
“Skating, at its most basic level, has always made me happy. Stripped down, unglamorous. No cameras, no judges to dock half a point because of my knee placement. It’s me, it’s the ice, and life is good.
” I blink up at Brody. “That’s why you’re here.
To reteach me swizzles and snowplow stops.
If this doesn’t work, I either go back to competing and fight through the miserableness, or I give up. ”
“You don’t strike me as someone who would ever give up.”
“I’m not. Which is why I’m hoping this works.”
“I’ve always performed well under pressure.” He sets his drink down. “Funny you mention swizzles and snowplow stops. Those are both in the USA Hockey Learn to Skate plan.”
“Guess our sports aren’t that different from each other.” I unzip my bag, pulling out a scrunchie. I throw my hair up in a messy ponytail, adding a pink ribbon to it. “I know you’re busy, but I don’t need more than a few months with you to try this out.”
“March.” Brody rubs his jaw. “Four months, twice a week.”
“Do you have time for that?”
“I’ll make time. This is important to you, and I know what it’s like to have something you love taken away from you prematurely. I wouldn’t wish that feeling of being lost on anyone.”
“Sounds like you have some firsthand experience. What happened?”
“You don’t know my story?” Brody’s eyebrows furrow. “It’s hardly a secret.”
“Do you think I spend my free time looking you up?”
“God, I hope not. You’d be bored to death.”
I laugh. “In the spirit of honesty, I have read plenty of articles about you, but I’ve always preferred hearing things straight from the source.”
“What do you know? The source is right here.” He taps his right knee.
A long, white scar stretches across his leg.
I didn’t notice it when we hooked up, too distracted by other parts of his body, but I see it now.
“I came into the league at nineteen years old. Played five great seasons, but one game, an opponent’s blade sliced through my gear and reached my skin.
Cut a tendon, and I had to have surgery.
It was a freak accident. My team wanted me back in the lineup as quickly as possible, but when I returned, my body wasn’t healed.
After three months of pain, poor playing, and a lot of frustration, I recognized I’d never be the same athlete again.
So, I retired. It was the smartest thing I could’ve done, but I still did it unwillingly.
It hurts like hell to lose a part of yourself, and I’m not going to let that happen to you.
” He kicks off his sneakers and slips on his skates, tying them tight. “Which means we have work to do.”
Oh.
Hearing his story—and his eagerness to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself with me—breathes fresh life into my motivation.
It makes me lace up my own skates. Makes my blood hum with anticipation and excitement, and when was the last time I’ve been this ready to work on something as simple as my edge control?
Never, a voice whispers.
“Is that why you’re wearing a whistle?” I ask, trying to keep the air between us light without giving away how much his agreement to help means to me. “Because you’re about to go into coach mode?”
“Yup. Get your ass on the ice, Everett,” Brody says, and I grin.
“Try to keep up,” I say back, and the flicker of amusement in his eyes makes me think working with him is going to be a lot of fucking fun.
“Let’s start with a couple easy laps.” He moves clockwise around the ice. His legs are even longer with skates on, and I match his pace. “No specific focus. No thinking. Just skating.”
“This is my favorite. Hey.” I nudge him with my elbow. “I’m sorry about your injury.”
“It was years ago.”
“Still. I’m sorry things didn’t turn out how you thought they would.”
“They didn’t,” he agrees. “But I think they turned out better. If I kept playing, I wouldn’t have Liv. I wouldn’t be coaching a good group of guys.”
“I’m going to tell them you said that.”
“Don’t you dare.” He stops us after three laps and gestures to center ice. “You really want to get basic with this?”
“Yup. Pretend like this is my first time putting on skates.”
“You’re more elegant than the players I’m used to working them, but we can start with edge work.”
“Sounds kinky.” I smirk when his neck flushes red. “Bring it on, Saunders.”
Brody takes me through a set of stationary drills. There are C-cuts. Outside and inside edge balancing. Dynamic exercises he tells me he runs with the guys, power pulls and crossovers that are new to me.
They’re elementary components I haven’t practiced in years. The moves come naturally to me as an adult, but away from a choreographed program or the jumps I rely on, I’m forced to think about each part of my body.
I have to remind myself to engage my core and the position of my shoulders. I keep dropping my chin, overthinking what comes next, until Brody blows his whistle and makes me jump.
“Eyes up.” He lifts my chin with his finger, humming when my posture straightens. “That’s better. We’re going to do a gliding drill around the face-off circle next.”