The First Lap #2
By the time I finish changing, most of the locker room has emptied.
The laughter that filled the room a few minutes earlier has drifted down the hallway with the rest of the team, leaving behind the familiar sounds of equipment being packed away and showers running somewhere in the distance.
I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and step into the corridor where Annette is waiting, leaning against the wall with a folder tucked beneath one arm.
She looks up as the door closes behind me.
"Well?"
I smile. "I survived."
"I noticed."
Her eyes move automatically to my shoulder, studying the way I carry the bag before meeting my gaze again.
"Any pain?"
"Nothing unusual."
"Tightness?"
"A little."
"Sharp pain?"
I shake my head.
She nods with quiet satisfaction. "Good."
I grin. "You know, most people would've started by asking whether skating felt wonderful."
"I already knew the answer to that."
"You did?"
"I saw your face when you stepped onto the ice."
I laugh softly. "Was it that obvious?"
"Jamie..." She smiles. "You looked like someone who'd just been handed a piece of his life back."
The words catch me by surprise because they're exactly right. "I guess that's what it felt like."
We begin walking toward the parking lot, neither of us in any hurry to leave.
The practice facility is quieter now. A few arena employees pass us in the hallway, offering me a smile or a wave.
I return every greeting, asking one man about his granddaughter's piano recital and another whether his wife is feeling better after the flu.
Annette watches the conversations unfold with quiet amusement. I glance toward her. "My mother has an incredible memory."
"I don't think you can blame your mother for this."
I laugh. "You've been talking to my teammates."
"A little."
"They exaggerate."
She gives me a look that says she knows better. "Liam claims you asked about his dentist appointment six months after he mentioned it."
"I did."
She stops walking. "You actually did?"
I shrug. "He had seemed nervous about it."
A smile spreads across her face.
"Jamie..."
"What?"
"You honestly don't realize you do these things, do you?" "I'm beginning to think I don't."
She shakes her head, still smiling, and we continue toward the exit.
The afternoon sun has warmed the parking lot enough that the last patches of snow are shrinking beneath the edges of the trees.
Somewhere across the street, children are shouting as they run around on the community playground, their voices carrying easily on the breeze.
I unlock my truck but don't reach for the door. Instead, I lean against it, looking back toward the arena.
"I kept wondering if I'd feel different."
Annette waits. "I thought maybe the first skate would answer every question."
"And did it?"
I consider that for a moment. "It answered one."
She tilts her head. "I still love hockey."
"I never doubted that."
"Neither did I."
I smile. "I guess I was wondering if hockey still loved me."
She studies me with that calm, thoughtful expression I've come to know so well.
"Jamie..." She steps a little closer. "Hockey never stopped loving you."
I look at her, puzzled. "You've been measuring the wrong thing."
"What do you mean?" "You thought your value depended on whether you could play." She gestures toward the arena behind us. "But everything I watched today had very little to do with your skating."
I wait.
"I watched Ethan smile the moment you stepped onto the ice."
She pauses. "I watched Coach relax."
Another pause. "I watched Liam pretend not to get emotional."
I laugh. "He'll deny that."
"Of course he will."
Her smile softens. "And I watched every person in that building stand a little taller simply because you were there.
" She lets the words settle before continuing.
"Your shoulder brought you back onto the ice.
" She gently taps the captain's crest embroidered on my practice jacket.
"But this..." Her hand rests there for only a second before falling away. "...never left."
For a moment I can't find an answer, because she's right. The captain was never something I wore.
It is something I try to be. "I think," I say quietly, "you've been fixing more than my shoulder."
A flicker of emotion crosses her face. "So have you, for me."
The answer surprises me. "Me?"
She nods. "You've reminded me why I want to do this." She looks back toward the arena. "Not because people recover." Her voice grows quieter. "But because sometimes they discover who they were all along."
Neither of us speaks for several seconds. The silence isn't awkward. It's simply full.
***
Finally, she smiles and takes a small step backward. "I should let you get home."
"I suppose you should."
"Stretch tonight."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know, I know. And ice right?"
I grin, and she counters with, "Captain Walker...are you attempting to negotiate with your rehabilitation plan?"
I laugh. "I've learned better."
"Fortunately for both of us," she says with a smile, "your shoulder didn't get a vote."
I shake my head. "I think you've been waiting weeks to use that line."
"I absolutely have."
We both laugh. Then she lifts one hand in a small wave and walks toward her car.
I watch her go for a moment before climbing into my truck.
As I pull out of the parking lot, I catch sight of the arena in my rearview mirror.
This morning I thought getting back on the ice would be the best part of the day.
It wasn't.
The best part...
was having someone waiting to ask how it felt.