Chapter 28 #2
“They all are. And I think just seeing you out on the ice again, even after all the obstacles you’ve faced—are currently facing—will be great for them.”
“Let’s hope I can still skate, then.”
He laughed and patted me on the back. “I have no doubt. You can head back to the locker rooms and get changed. Come on out whenever you’re ready.”
When Coach had called me on Monday, a couple weeks after Snowmaggedon, and asked if I’d have any time while I was home to speak to the team and run a few drills or scrimmage with them, I couldn’t agree fast enough.
I’d been feeling like a caged animal for weeks, desperate to get back on the ice. So I jumped at the opportunity.
It’d been barely two months since the injury had benched me, relegating me to LTIR and the relentless grind of rehab, but it felt like a fucking lifetime.
This was the longest I’d ever gone in my career without being on the ice, and I couldn’t wait to get back out there.
I just needed to take it easy and listen to my body.
And considering what was on the line—not just a future in hockey, but also my ability to live a pain-free life when my career was long gone—I had no intention of ignoring what my knee was telling me.
Once I was suited up, I headed back out to the rink, tipping my chin at Coach when he noticed me waiting in the wings, hanging back until his signal. He gave two quick bursts of the whistle, and the boys immediately skated his direction, gathering around him.
“I have a little surprise for you today, boys.”
“Tell me there’s a taco truck waiting for us after practice, Coach,” a kid who stood half a foot above the rest said.
“Sorry to disappoint, Reynolds, but there aren’t any tacos. But I do have someone joining you on the ice today.”
Murmurs went up as the team exchanged questioning glances.
“You guys probably know him best as the elite two-way player for Vancouver, celebrated for his exceptional stats—someone with a knack for clutch goals, a guy who can always get the puck on his teammates’ tape, and a force to be reckoned with in every aspect of the game.
But what I see when I look at Chase is what I see in so many of you—just a kid with a passion for this game we all love. ”
“You better not be playing with me, Coach,” one of the guys called.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re serious?” another one asked, shock in his tone. “Chase freaking Lockhart is here?”
“The one and only,” Coach said, dipping his chin in a nod. “Since he’s back in Starlight Cove for a while, I thought we should give him a chance to come out here and play…see the upgrades to this facility his generous donations provided.”
I took that as my cue to head out on the ice.
The cold air hit my face as the familiar scent of the rink enveloped me, and the crisp sound of my blades cutting through the ice reverberated in my ears.
Each stride I took was familiar and foreign all at once.
Lingering pain echoed in my knee, reminding me of how precarious everything still was.
It was a bittersweet moment, a clash of emotions warring inside me—gratitude for being back on the ice, immediately followed by frustration at the limitations I still faced.
The pain served as a stark reminder of exactly what I’d lost with this injury—not just playing time with my team but also the intimate connection to the game I loved.
As soon as Coach’s attention fixed on me, the boys followed his gaze. Several whooped, a few called out hellos and holy shits, and one kid in the back shouted, “You were robbed of the Selke last year, man!”
I shot him a grin and a chin nod. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate that.”
Coach clapped his hands. “All right, boys, let’s make today count. Chase is just one of the team while he’s here, so don’t go easy on him.”
“Throwing me to the wolves, Coach?”
“I think you can handle it.” He grinned around his whistle before giving it two short blows, and just like in high school, I moved my ass right along with the rest of the team.
As the drills began, it became perfectly clear each and every one of the players was trying their damnedest to show off.
But even without that extra burst of effort, the team was dedicated, full of heart and determination, and that was easy to see.
But above all, they had that undiluted hunger and love for the game, stripped of endorsements and contracts and all the BS that came with being a professional.
While I’d never stopped loving hockey, things had shifted when I’d gone pro. Priorities changed. It was no longer about just playing because I loved it—it was playing to win. Striving for the next contract. Aiming for awards. Killing myself out there to secure legacy money for myself and my family.
And I’d succeeded in all four, but at what cost?
My body had taken a beating over the past decade, my knee possibly fucked beyond repair, and I’d spent ten years away from the only woman I’d ever loved.
But here, alongside this group of teenage boys, all that extra baggage was swept away, relegated to the sidelines as the pure enjoyment of the game rose above everything else.
After a while, Coach blew the whistle again and called for a scrimmage.
And if I thought the team was focused before, it had nothing on what they showcased out on the ice now.
The intensity heightened, and each player demonstrated their talents as they battled for the puck.
It was a fast-paced game, and I was loving every second of it.
In that moment, the burden of everything resting on my shoulders and the fear of the unknown melted away. The what-ifs my future held no longer weighed me down, the urgency I’d felt for months to get my knee back in full playing condition no longer breathing down my neck.
But still, even while I was out there, having the most fun I’d had in longer than I could remember, a whisper in the back of my mind took root.
I might’ve been able to hold my own against some damn good varsity hockey players, but my knee still throbbed like a motherfucker the entire time, and I’d only been playing at half capacity.
Which meant, as it currently stood, there was no fucking way I could hack it in the NHL. Not without another surgery.