Chapter 25
Blake
Two weeks after surgery, the rink smells the same as it always has. Cold air. Steel. Freshly cut ice. Rubber from skate guards dragging across concrete.
It should feel normal. It should feel like coming home.
Instead, the first time I step through the tunnel toward the practice sheet with my arm still stiff from rehab bands and slow rotations and instructions I’m trying very hard not to ignore, it feels like walking into a version of my life I’m not entirely sure I still belong to.
Recovery is quieter than hockey. Recovery is slower than hockey. Recovery asks for patience in a language hockey never taught me.
“Don’t rush it,” Jenna says behind me for the third time in five minutes.
“I’m not,” I reply.
“You are thinking about rushing it.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t. Not when it comes to recovery.”
I rotate my shoulder again, slowly, like she showed me, the movement careful and controlled and frustratingly small compared to what my body still expects itself to do automatically.
For a second, I close my eyes just to feel the joint move without pain instead of forcing it forward like instinct wants me to.
“Better,” she says.
“I hate this.”
“That means it’s working. I have to check on Jake. Can I count on you tomorrow?” Jenna asks, and I nod.
I don’t tell her Lisa is coming. Not because it’s a secret. Because I don’t want anyone watching what this actually is.
This isn’t just rehab. This is something else. I hear her before I see her.
The hesitation in her footsteps gives her away immediately. The slight pause at the entrance to the rink tells me she’s already second-guessing herself before she even steps onto the rubber flooring beside the boards.
When I turn around, she’s standing exactly where I expected her to be. Hands in the pockets of her coat. Eyes already on the ice. Breathing slower than usual.
“You made it,” I say.
“You didn’t tell me there would be actual ice involved,” she replies.
“I assumed that part was obvious.”
“I thought maybe this was metaphorical therapy,” she says.
“This is hockey therapy.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It is worse.”
She doesn’t move any closer. Not yet. Which is exactly why I asked her to come.
“Come here,” I say gently.
“I am here.”
“You’re in the doorway.”
“That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
She exhales slowly and walks toward me anyway. Each step is deliberate in a way that makes it obvious she’s already fighting the instinct to turn around and leave.
“I don’t even have skates,” she says.
“I brought yours.”
Her head snaps toward me.
“You what?”
“They were in your brother’s storage closet.”
“You went through Zane’s storage closet?”
“I went through my best friend’s storage closet,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
She looks at the bag beside the bench like it might disappear if she stares at it long enough.
“I haven’t worn those in years,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
For a moment, she doesn’t answer.
“You’re not even supposed to be skating yet.”
“I’m not skating,” I say. “I’m supervising.”
“You’re on the ice.”
“I’m standing on the ice.”
“That’s skating-adjacent.”
“That’s recovery-adjacent.”
She laughs. Which is exactly what I was hoping would happen.
“Sit,” I say, nodding toward the bench.
She hesitates. Then sits.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she admits while pulling her shoes off.
“You don’t have to,” I tell her.
“That’s not helpful.”
“You don’t have to skate,” I clarify. “You just have to stand.”
“That’s worse.”
I kneel in front of her before she can argue again and slide one of the skates closer.
“Trust me,” I say quietly.
She watches my hands instead of the ice, which tells me everything I need to know about how nervous she still is.
“You’re not allowed to laugh,” she warns.
“I’m absolutely allowed to laugh.”
“Blake.”
“I won’t laugh,” I promise.
Immediately, I smile. She narrows her eyes.
“You’re already laughing.”
“I’m smiling. It doesn’t count.”
When she stands up on the skates, she freezes immediately. Not dramatically. Not visibly to anyone else. But I see it.
The stillness in her shoulders. The shift in her breathing. The way her weight stays too centered instead of settling naturally.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“I remember this part,” she whispers.
“Good memory or bad memory?”
“Both.”
I step onto the ice beside her slowly, keeping enough distance that she doesn’t feel crowded but close enough that she knows I’m there if she needs me.
“Hold the boards,” I tell her.
She does. Immediately.
“Now,” I continue gently, “just stand.”
“I am standing.”
“Stand without thinking about falling.”
“That’s not how standing works.”
“It is today.”
She takes one breath. Then another. And slowly, almost without realizing she’s doing it, her shoulders relax.
“There,” I say quietly. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“That’s you standing.”
After a minute, she looks at me.
“You tricked me.”
“I helped you.”
“You tricked me into helping myself.”
“That’s my specialty.”
“Now what?” she asks.
“Now we move.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“One step.”
She stares at me.
“One,” I repeat.
When she finally shifts her weight forward and slides one skate half an inch across the ice, she looks at me like she just crossed an ocean.
“I moved.”
“You did.”
“I moved.”
“You’re basically an Olympian now.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“That’s still under review.”
We move slowly after that. Not skating. Not really. Just sliding. Gliding. Laughing.
Falling once when she forgets to bend her knees, and grabs my sleeve so hard she almost pulls me off balance with her.
“Careful,” I say, laughing.
“You told me not to fall.”
“I told you not to think about falling.”
At some point, she stops holding the boards. Neither of us mentions it right away. Because if we say it out loud, she might notice. And if she notices, she might stop.
“This counts as a date,” I tell her eventually.
“This is not a date.”
“It is.”
“You brought me to physical therapy.”
“I brought you to emotional therapy.”
“That’s worse.”
She laughs again. And this time, she doesn’t look scared at all. She just looks happy. Which somehow feels bigger than the first time I stepped back onto the ice myself.
“You know,” she says after a minute, “I think this is the first time I’ve been on the ice without feeling like I had to prove something.”
“That’s because you don’t,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“Anytime,” I answer.