Chapter 3 #2
Blades cut smooth arcs, breath fogging in the cold air, shouts and laughter bouncing around the rink. Heavy boots thudded behind me, crossing the rubber mats from the tunnel.
“Look alive, Coach.”
The deep voice was unmistakable. Shane O’Connell, all six-foot-four of him, lumbered toward the bench with a grin as wide as the rink itself. A wall of muscle with a scowl that could make grown men flinch–but I knew better. Underneath, he was a soft-hearted bruiser who loved the game.
“Afternoon, O’Connell,” I said, with a smirk, as he dropped onto the bench. “You’re late.”
“Late?” he scoffed, tugging off his boots and grabbing his skates. “I’ve been here thirty minutes, buddy. You’re the one who strolled in just in time. I didn’t want to interrupt your intense note-taking session.” He nodded toward my clipboard, mouth twitching with amusement.
“Some of us have real jobs you know,” I shot back as he bent to lace his skates.
“Oh yeah, real tough–fixing Mrs. Nickols’ leaky sink.”
“Light fixture,” I corrected dryly.
Shane snorted, finishing the last loop and standing with a grunt. He stepped onto the ice with practised ease, blades gliding smoothly as he joined the warm-ups.
Shane and I have been best friends since college–he was the star defenseman who could clear the zone like nobody’s business. I was the forward who lived for the breakaway and the thrill of finding the back of the net. We’d won a couple championships together before moving on to separate NHL teams.
Shane’s career ended a couple of years ago after a knee injury, not much longer after, I left the league.
He’d traded the spotlight for this small town rink.
Brookhaven was his roots. He thrived here–talking about the old diner on Main Street, the winter festival, the folks who waved like they’d known you forever.
I stood at the edge of the rink, stick in hand, as the kids practised passing plays. Most were improving–at least, better than last week–though a few still treated the puck like a hot potato.
“Keep it tight, Ben!” I clapped the blade of my stick against the ice. “You know what soft passes get you? A front row seat to their breakaway. Give it some bite!”
Ben rolled his eyes–classic twelve-year-old–then sent a harder pass across the ice. The puck snapped clean against his teammate’s stick, smooth as anything. A grin tugged at my mouth. Kid had attitude, but at least he listened.
“Finally,” I muttered.
Shane watched the next pass. “Told you he’d get it,” Shane said, skating over to stand beside me.
“Only took fifty reminders.”
“Not every kid’s gonna have hands like yours, Barzal. Some of us had to work for it.”
I shot him a look. “Says the guy who made it nearly impossible to get past him on the ice.”
Shane scoffed. “The only one who could stop you.”
“You tripped me,” I muttered.
“Details,” he said with a shrug. “Point is, you made it look easy out there. These kids hit the jackpot having you out here.”
I rolled my eyes, but he kept going.
“You’re still that guy, Ry. The one all the kids want to be.”
I tensed, the clipboard suddenly heavier in my hands.
He looked at me sideways. “They look at you like you’re some kind of hero, man.”
My jaw tightened. “You wanna talk or coach?” I nodded toward Ben. “Because Ben’s about to treat that puck like a live grenade again.”
Shane’s voice boomed across the ice. “Alright, rookies! If I see one more wimpy pass, you’re all doing suicides until your legs fall off or you puke!”
The kids groaned, yet their passes sharpened instantly.
I grinned, leaning on my stick. Shane might look ready to chew someone out, but I’d seen him sneak gear to kids whose families couldn’t afford it. Last month, he bought Oliver a pair of skates, claiming they were “just lying around the pro shop.”
The rink was quiet now, the lights dimmed, earlier noise swallowed by shadows.
I sat alone in the stands, the faint hum of the arena’s cooling system filling the silence.
Elbows on my knees, hands clasped, I stared at the freshly resurfaced ice.
The clean, glossy surface reflected the overhead lights like a mirror–a stark contrast to the chaos of practice just an hour ago.
This was my favourite time in the rink–still, emptied out, just me and the ice. A place that had always felt like home, even when nowhere else did.
I leaned back, stretching my legs, a long breath slipping out. Shane’s words clung, same as Mrs. Nickols’.
Fixing light fixtures and running hockey practices didn’t exactly erase the past.
I was still getting used to this town–the way people looked out for each other, how they made you feel like you belonged, even if you didn’t believe it yourself.
Shifting in my seat, my gaze trailing to the locker room below.
Shane was probably still there, packing up equipment and cracking jokes with the kids who hung back–the ones who couldn’t get enough of the rink.
He thrived in moments like that–laughing, connecting, being the guy everyone wanted to be around.
Me? That version of myself felt like someone I’d left behind.
A door creaked open, the sound echoing across the arena. I turned, half-expecting Shane with some jab about me brooding alone. The noise faded quickly, swallowed back into the hum.
I stood, boots scuffing against the concrete, the sound sharp in the stillness. The ice was calling–not for skating, not tonight. Tonight, it was just there–a blank slate, waiting for someone else to make their mark.
As I reached the edge of the rink, I let my hand rest against the boards, the cold biting into my skin.
Maybe Mrs. Nickols was right. Maybe I could be the guy everyone seemed to think I was.
Right now, though, it felt safer to just be the guy who stayed behind after practice, staring at the ice and wondering if it could tell the difference between who I was and who I wanted to be.
With a sigh, I turned and made my way toward the locker room, the sound of my footsteps the only thing breaking the quiet.