Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DYLAN
They say you should listen to your body.
Mine’s screaming.
Everything aches; my ankle’s stiff, shoulder feels like it’s full of broken glass, and I haven’t slept more than three hours in two nights.
But I still show up to morning training, brace on one leg, strapping on under the gear I’m not even supposed to wear yet.
I just need to feel like a player, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
Even if I’m just standing at the edge of the rink, watching.
Jonno spots me near the bench and narrows his eyes. “Thought Clarke benched you.”
“She did.” My answer is nonchalant and dismissive.
“Then what the hell are you doing in skates?”
I glance down. “Felt weird not putting them on.”
He sighs and walks off muttering, “Bloody idiot.”
I don’t argue. He’s not wrong.
There’s something about being near the ice, though. The smell, the sound of blades carving into it, the echo of pucks slamming off the boards. It’s church, in its own weird way. Familiar. Sacred. The only place where my head ever shuts up.
I grip the boards and lean on them, watching the boys run drills. Fast pace, quick passes, shouting across the rink. Murphy scores one top shelf and whoops like he’s just won gold.
The envy hits hard. I hate being on the outside. I hate standing still when everything inside me is wired to move. To fight. To win.
It’s not just about the game. It’s about needing something to hold onto when everything else slips.
Always has been.
I started skating when I was five. Too young really, but no one told me I couldn’t, so I did.
My mum bought me a pair of second-hand boots, in case it was a passing phase, and an hour of ice time at the local rink every Saturday.
I fell more than I skated, but I kept going.
Even when my knees were raw and bleeding.
Even when my fingers went numb through the holes in my gloves.
The first time I scored a proper goal in a little league game when I was eight, she cried in the stands. I remember that. Not the goal. Not how it happened. Just her face. Lit up like it meant something. Like I meant something.
Dad didn’t come to that game. Or the one after. Or the one after that.
He always had reasons, albeit shitty ones. He had to work, the lawn needed mowing or he had to see a man about a dog. You name it, he had the excuse already lined up.
Eventually, he stopped pretending, and Mum stopped asking him to come along. I stopped caring.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Mia’s voice snaps me back to the training session that’s playing out on the ice.
“You’re not cleared for training.”
I turn and there she is, arms folded, black hoodie pulled tight around her like armour. She looks tired. Not in a way that shows, but I can see it. The set of her jaw. The tightness in her shoulders.
“Not training,” I say. “Just watching.” My shoulders shrug in a matter-of-fact way.
“You’re in skates. You don’t need skates to watch.”
“Didn’t want to feel left out.”
She steps closer, her eyes scanning me like she’s checking for fresh damage. Her gaze lands on my ankle brace, then flicks to my shoulder, still stiff from yesterday’s rehab. “You’re going to set yourself back,” she says, quieter now.
“Probably.” Although I’m not sure how watching my teammates train is going to cause me any further damage, or prevent my body from healing.
“So why do it?”
“Habit.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just watches me for a beat, then gestures with her head. “Come on. I need to re-tape that ankle.”
I hesitate. “Kind of enjoying the view from here.”
“Winters.” The tone of her voice leaves no room for a comeback so I follow her without arguing. My body doesn’t have the energy to be stubborn right now.
The treatment room reeks of Deep Heat and stubborn men. She gets me up on the table, and starts cutting the old tape off my ankle with surgical precision. Her hands are steady and fast. She doesn’t fumble.
I always wonder what she sees when she works. If she notices the old scars. The faint bruises that never really fade. Whether she tries to piece together a history from the bits of broken that are on show.
“Why hockey?” she asks out of nowhere.
I blink. “What?”
“You said it’s a habit. Being here. Pushing through injury. Why this sport? Why not football or rugby or…I don’t know. Something less likely to kill you.”
I shrug. “Wasn’t good at anything else.”
She doesn’t buy that. I can tell by the way her eyes narrow slightly.
“I liked the noise,” I say after a pause. “The speed. The hits. Everything about it. There’s no space to think out there. You just react.”
She finishes taping and sits back, arms on her knees. “That why you can’t sit still? Scared of the silence?”
I let out a breath, it’s almost a laugh. “Christ, you’re intense.”
“Just observant.”
“Right. You moonlight as a therapist?”
“I deal with damaged men every day. Comes with the job.”
I tilt my head. “And you’ve put me in that box already?”
She looks at me then. Like she’s trying to see past the version of myself I sell to the world. “You put yourself there, not me,” she says quietly.
I glance away.
She’s not wrong.
We sit in silence for a while after that. She doesn’t rush me out. Doesn’t fill the space with awkward small talk. Just lets it be.
I should leave.
But something keeps me anchored to the table. “My dad played hockey,” I say suddenly.
It comes out before I can decide if I want it to or not. Her head tilts slightly, interest sparked but she doesn’t push. She doesn’t pounce; she just waits.
“He played at university,” I add. “Was good, apparently. Could’ve gone pro, maybe. But he didn’t. Went into finance instead. Met my mum. Had me. I started playing, and he got all weird about it. Like it was his dream, not mine.”
She watches me without speaking.
“When I was little, he used to shout a lot. Never liked how I did things. Said I was too wild and undisciplined. That I’d never make it unless I played like a ‘thinking man.’ Whatever that means.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her posture softens slightly. Not pity, but something closer to understanding.
“He left when I was fifteen,” I say, shrugging. “Didn’t even say goodbye. Just…gone. Took a job in Dubai. Or maybe New York. Mum never said. Doesn’t really matter.”
Mia says nothing and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want her to fix it. Just want it out of my head for a bit.
I lean back on my elbows, stare at the ceiling. “People think I’m cocky,” I say. “They think I don’t care. That I screw around and smile through everything.”
She doesn’t argue but she doesn’t confirm it either.
“I figured out early that being the loudest in the room was better than being invisible.”
Mia shifts forward. “And is it working?”
I look at her, long and hard. “I don’t know.”
She studies me for a long moment, then stands and walks to the counter, busying herself with something. Or maybe just giving me space. The air feels heavier now. But not in a bad way. I sit up slowly, and test the weight on my ankle. “Feels better.”
“Still not cleared.” She states firmly, but she doesn’t turn around to look at me.
“I know.” I move toward the door, slower than usual. I reach for the handle, then stop. “You ever think about quitting?”
She turns to me. “Quitting what?”
“This job. Dealing with us.”
“Every bloody day.”
That makes me laugh, properly this time. “Then why stay?”
She pauses, then shrugs. “Because someone’s got to keep you idiots from falling apart.”
I nod. Then, in a softer tone I say, “Thanks for today.”
She nods back. “Don’t expect a cuddle next time.”
“No promises.” I leave the room, my shoulder still aching, but something in my chest feels a little less heavy.
And I realise, for the first time in a long while, I actually want to get better.
Not just to play.
But maybe to stay.