1. Dylan
DYLAN
The sound of footsteps echoes off the concrete tunnel, sounding like the entire team is marching toward the rink and not a lone girl with her heart lodged in her throat.
The faint glow of the emergency lights guides me forward until the vacuous arena unfolds before me.
Cold, biting air stings my nostrils and fills my lungs, bringing me to life with every inhale.
Inadvertently, a smile twists at the corners of my lips.
Stale popcorn.
Zamboni fumes.
And a hint of metallic copper…
The smells of my childhood.
Of the most important thing in my life.
Hockey.
Hockey is all that I have now. It is everything . It’s what gets me out of bed in the morning. What keeps the dark thoughts at bay. It gives me a future to work toward—something to strive for.
Without it…well, I don’t want to think about where I’d be without this sport.
Thankfully, I don’t have to.
Feet rooted to the ground, my gaze roams over the battered and scuffed boards, carrying stories of a thousand games. Over the vacant plastic chairs that seat the asses of hundreds of supporters as they scream on their team.
This place has seen more blood, sweat, and tears than most churches, and God knows, it’s far more sacred.
As though walking through the Sistine Chapel, I hold my breath as I steadily make my way toward the edge of the rink, taking all of it in, barely daring to believe I’m here .
My fingers brush the top of the board with the same tenderness a Van Gogh fanatic would show The Starry Night, tracing the lines of peeled paint with reverence.
This is where I watched my first-ever hockey game. Where my love of the sport began. It’s been years since I was back here. Truthfully, I never thought I would step foot in this arena again.
Yet, here I stand on the precipice of change.
Hopefully, things will go better this time around…
Goosebumps pebble along my arms. The tank top and jean shorts I’m wearing do little to combat the cold as I stare out over the ice.
In my mind’s eye, I can see the players—a sea of Bermuda blue and silver—skating across the rink, skates cutting across the bold Steelhawks emblem in the center of the ice.
I can hear the roar of the crowd. The ding of the buzzer as a goal is scored. The slam of a body hitting the boards.
An entire game plays out in front of me before I lift my gaze higher, climbing the tall walls of the arena until I reach the row of jerseys—previous players who have gone on to join the NHL. I scan the names, not daring to consider a future where my name could be on that wall.
My focus stalls on the final jersey, a lump rising in my throat.
“Let’s hope I don’t screw this one up, eh?”
My question is directed to ghosts, but it is a very alive voice that responds, making me jump out of my skin .
“How did I know I’d find you here instead of at home, resting ?”
Spinning toward the voice, a reluctant smile grows across my face.
“Just wanted to get a feel of the place before chaos ensues tomorrow.” Once he’s close enough, I wrap my arms around him, and he envelops me in a hug that I can feel to my bones. “Thought you’d be long gone by now, tucked up in bed, old man.”
He scoffs, pulling away to nudge me with his elbow. “That’s Coach to you now.”
I scrunch my nose. “Nope. Don’t think I can do it.” Leaning in, I say more softly, “You’ll always be Bear to me.”
He huffs an irritated laugh, but I catch the way the corners of his lips lift, the tenderness that momentarily softens his eyes.
“Not in public, if you know what’s good for you.”
Aaaand that gruff exterior is back.
Gesturing toward the closest row of plastic seats, he walks over to sit, and I join him. “You’re ready, you know. I might have gotten you in the door, but you deserve a spot on this team. What spot that is, is up to you, but you. Deserve. This. Shot.”
He reaches over to squeeze my hand, and I manage a wan smile.
“What if I mess it all up again?” My voice is pinched tight with nerves.
“You won’t. You’ve learned from last year. Focus on the game, and your raw talent will speak for itself.” A wistful smile plays along his lips. “Of course, if you don’t go home and get some rest, you’re going to play like shit tomorrow.”
I gasp, my turn to smack the man who has been like an uncle to me my entire life. “How dare you! I could be out partying all night and still kick ass on the ice. ”
“Ha,” he barks. “I know you got the email with my rulebook. No partying, and no drinking during the season.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “I bet every single one of your players sits at home every Saturday night, with a can of Coke, playing board games. They’re definitely not at a bar after every game—win or lose— drinking.”
He simply shakes his head. He knows damn well what his players get up to off the ice.
“Besides,” I argue, “ technically , we’re in the preseason…”
“Don’t get smart with me, kiddo, or your ass will be benched before you get the chance to show anyone what you can do.”
I grin, our banter having loosened the nerves starting to tighten in my chest. Leaning in, he wraps an arm around my shoulder, pressing his lips to my temple. “It’s good to have you home, D.” His gaze flicks skyward. “He’d be so proud of you.”
With a lump in my throat and comforting arms around me, I stare steadfastly out across the rink. God, I hope so , because the next time I’m here, I won’t just be looking at the ice.
I’ll be playing on it.
The heavy doors of the arena slam shut behind me as I step out into the setting sun.
Taking a moment, I pull on my sunglasses and stare out over the parking lot.
There is only one other car here other than mine, but I know when tomorrow morning rolls around, it’ll be packed with the vehicles of various members of the team—players, trainers, coaches.
Refusing to let the nerves in, I cross the parking lot to my car and climb behind the wheel.
The heat of the leather seats presses against the backs of my thighs, and I immediately blast the A/C.
Glancing in my rearview mirror, I can’t see past my belongings piled high in the back seat.
Everything from my previous dorm room is haphazardly crammed into the confined space.
I’m pretty sure I heard a light bulb smash at one point…
Shit, I hope it wasn’t one of my mugs. I don’t think I could deal with a shattered mug on top of everything else right now.
Goddammit, I knew I should have taken better care when putting everything in the car.
I was just so fucking ready to get out of there.
With Blackstone State University only being a fifteen-minute drive from my old one, I easily could have made several trips back and forth instead of stuffing everything I had into one carload…
But nope. There was no way in hell you could pay me to step foot back on Northern Summit’s campus.
Please don’t let it be one of the mugs!
Sending up a silent prayer, I know I can’t sit in the BSU parking lot all night. It’s time to really get this fresh start underway.
Starting the engine, I pull out through the campus gates and head toward Athletes Row, the street where all student-athletes are housed. Why? Because it’s the closest one to the sports center.
Blackstone is a small college town, so it only takes a few minutes before I turn onto the correct street, slowing as I check the numbers on each house for number 91—where I’ll live for at least the next nine months.
Even though the academic year doesn’t start for another two weeks, the street is busy with other athletic students moving in since we all typically start back a week before everyone else.
With my window down to allow the pleasant August breeze to blow through my hair, I catch the upbeat tune from a speaker set up in the front lawn of a house as I drive past. Another house has two girls working together to carry an armchair inside, with a group of guys sitting outside the house opposite, beer in hand as they enjoy the last wisps of sunshine for the day .
Not that it gets cold at night at this time of year in Vermont. While our winters are bitingly cold, our summer days are hot, and our evenings blissfully pleasant.
Halfway down the street, I find the house I’ve been assigned to and pull up to the curb outside. My fingers tap absently against the wheel as I stare up at the three-story Victorian structure.
The house stands tall and stately, its pale clapboard siding weathered just enough to suggest history without neglect.
Deep, Bermuda blue shutters frame the windows, and the steeply pitched roofline gives it a quaint, almost storybook charm.
Despite its age, the house feels welcoming, like it has witnessed countless fresh starts and quiet triumphs.
Against my better judgment, a flicker of hope stirs in my chest, a nervous energy simmering just beneath my skin.
Not one to put something off once I’ve set my mind to it, I blow out one final breath before I mutter, “Here goes nothing,” and climb out of the car.
I twirl the keys around my finger as I make my way up the drive, the soles of my Converse slapping against the asphalt as I eye the large bay window that overlooks the front yard.
I don’t see any movement from within. Perhaps no one is home?
Refusing to acknowledge the butterflies in my stomach, I stuff my keys into my pocket so I can’t fiddle with them before ascending the front porch steps and rapping my knuckles against the faded wood of the front door.
Straining to listen, I don’t hear any noise from inside the house. I can’t decide if I’d prefer someone to be home so we can get this over with and I can collapse onto my bed, or if I’m grateful for the extra moments to gather myself.