Chapter 19
GARRETT
The rink in Rochester smells like melted rubber and mop water.
Garrett plants himself on the bench in the visitor’s dressing room and stretches his legs out with a grimace. His left knee pops like bubble wrap. His spine protests. The lighting overhead buzzes faintly, casting a pallor over the walls painted an uninspiring shade of oatmeal.
It’s the perfect place to suffer.
He grabs a fresh twig and starts winding tape around it. The operation is meticulous and routine, heel to toe, zero air bubbles, tight wrap. He tunes out the surrounding sounds—Flea humming off-key, Carter arguing with someone about whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich. It’s good. Distracting.
Winter road trips are shit.
Seven days. Four games. Two time zones. One brutal, lumpy team bus.
Exactly what he needs to flush her out of his system.
He yanks the tape tighter than usual, jaw clenching. People think pro hockey is glamorous. That it’s all charter flights and private chefs and carpeted dressing rooms with your name etched onto your stall. Sure—if you’re in the NHL. If you’re not?
It’s folding his long legs into a bus seat for hours. It’s shared rooms and living out of a duffle even though they’re expected to wear a suit on game days. It’s waking up in a different hotel every morning and having no idea where the hell the bathroom is when you stumble out of bed.
But at least it keeps his hands busy. His head focused. His brain off...other things.
The stick flexes under his grip.
He adds the last strip of tape to the shaft, smooths it down tight, and scrawls 23 and the date in Sharpie. NHL players get a new stick every game if they want. In the AHL, players have to be more careful, with a set allotment from the team based on ice time, stats, and brand deals.
He had ditched the pair of sticks he had been rotating between on game days—her sticks. Both were seasoned, both had been through wins, losses, shootouts—but if he was honest, mostly wins.
Garrett couldn’t explain why her small hands on his stick that night in Hartford had broken something in his brain. How one accidental touch turned into a superstition. Obsession.
He would’ve done anything to win. Even asked her for help.
But not anymore.
He had tossed those sticks in the discard pile without looking. Doesn’t need them. Doesn’t need her.
Tilly drops beside him with a thud. “You good?”
Garrett shrugs. “Peachy.”
Tilly snorts, but doesn’t push. Just nods and pulls out his own stick to tape.
Garrett appreciates that about him. No therapy circle bullshit. Just a quiet presence and shared tape.
He misses Jesse.
The kid’s still up in Brooklyn with the Mavericks, living the dream and probably chirping everyone with that stupid grin on his face.
He wouldn’t let Garrett stew in silence.
Would’ve pestered him with a million questions until he either exploded or gave in.
And he wouldn’t have stopped smiling the whole time. Annoying little bastard.
He shakes his head and starts taping a second stick.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s fine.
He doesn’t miss her. He misses his routine. His gear. His game-day order. His focus.
He finishes wrapping the knob and bites off the tape with his teeth, then runs a thumb over the seam to smooth it down. Perfect. Cold. Sharp.
Like he needs to be.