Chapter 9
I sat in my truck with the engine running and the heat blowing, watching the entrance. The parking lot was empty except for the overnight guy's pickup.
The ice was fresh from the Zamboni, gleaming under the overhead lights. The rink had that hollow early-morning quiet where every sound came back at you twice. No black-clad figure skating patterns across the surface. No camera on a tripod. No music.
I skated anyway until my hip went hot and tight, crossovers until my lungs burned and the only thing left was the next stride, the next turn, the scrape of my blades against ice that should have had someone else on it. By seven my legs were shaking and the door hadn't opened once.
I showered. Drove home. Made Dad's breakfast and counted out his pills and sat with him while he watched a game show, and when he asked me twice in ten minutes if Derek was coming over, I answered both times like it was the first.
Tuesday I got there at 4:52.
The parking lot was the same. The ice was the same. I skated harder this time, pushing until sweat soaked through my shirt and froze against my skin when I stopped. The cold settled into my bones and stayed there.
I'd given him my real name, and he'd said it back like it meant something.
And then he'd wiped his hand on that rag and gotten into an Uber, and disappeared.
I spent four days waiting and got four mornings of showing up to an empty rink.
Tuesday night was supposed to be my night.
Derek had Dad. Alibi was open. I could go out, have a few drinks, find someone who didn't know my name and didn't want to. That was the system. That was what had worked for years, the pressure valve that let me survive the rest of it.
The neon sign buzzed and flickered, casting pink light across my dashboard. I sat in the parking lot for ten minutes with the engine off.
Inside, the music was too loud, and the bar was packed. I found a spot at the end and ordered a Bud Light just to have something in my hands.
A guy caught my eye from across the room. Tall, dark hair, the kind of jaw that photographed well. He raised his glass. I raised mine back, and he took that as an invitation.
"Haven't seen you here before," he said, sliding onto the stool next to mine. "I'm Trey."
"Red."
"Like the hair." His smile was practiced, charming in a way that knew it was charming. "I like it."
He was attractive. He was interested. He was exactly the kind of guy I would have taken into the back room six months ago without a second thought.
His hand landed on my arm. I looked at it and waited to feel something.
He was talking about his job, something in marketing, and I nodded in the right places while my brain kept pulling up a different hand.
Different fingers. The way Joel had gripped my wrist hard enough to leave marks, and how I'd checked for the bruises every morning since, watching them fade from purple to green to yellow like evidence of something I couldn't prove anymore.
"You want to get out of here?" Trey asked.
"I can't."
"You sure?" He leaned closer. "My place is close."
"Yeah." I pulled my arm back. "Sorry."
He shrugged, already scanning the room. "Your loss."
I watched him walk away. The Bud Light was going warm in my hand, and I set it down without finishing it.
Outside, the parking lot was cold and empty. I sat in my truck with the engine running, going nowhere, watching my breath fog up the windshield until I couldn't see through it anymore.
I drove home.
The TV was on low in the living room. Derek's silhouette moved against the blue flicker. I walked past without stopping.
"Red?"
"Tired," I said. "Going to bed."
My room was dark. I lay on my bed and pulled out my phone.
Joel Coffey figure skating.
The search came back with hundreds of results. Competition footage, practice clips, interviews, fan edits with dramatic music. I scrolled past anything where I'd have to hear his voice and clicked on a video titled "Joel Coffey - US Nationals Free Skate."
The program started with Joel in the center of the ice, head bowed. He was wearing all black, matte from throat to wrist to ankle, no sequins or rhinestones.
The music started, and he began to skate.
I didn't know anything about figure skating.
I couldn't name the jumps or explain what made a spin good.
But I knew athletes. I knew what it looked like when someone was operating at a level most people couldn't reach, and Joel moved like the ice was an extension of his body, like the air bent around him because he'd decided it would.
The jumps were insane. He'd throw himself into rotation, spin so fast I lost count, and land like gravity had given him special permission. But the parts between the jumps were what made my chest go tight. He had footwork so intricate it looked impossible, and he made it look like breathing.
When it ended, the crowd went crazy. Joel stood in the center of the ice, chest heaving, and for just a second his face changed. His shoulders dropped. He looked tired. Almost soft.
Then it was gone.
I watched it three more times.
Somewhere around one in the morning I found an interview from a couple of years ago. Some morning show, soft lighting, hosts who smiled too much.
"People think it's about talent," Joel said. "It's not. It's about control. Controlling your body, your focus, your fear. If you can control everything, you can do anything."
Around two I found what I was looking for without knowing I'd been looking for it.
It was the same program I’d walked in on with Joel reaching for empty air, except in this video there was a crowd. When he wrapped his arms around himself like he was trying to hold something together, the whole arena went silent.
My phone battery died at 3:30. I plugged it in and kept watching.
At 3:47, I finally put it down.
Wednesday morning I showed up at five.
The parking lot was empty. The ice was empty. I skated for two hours, carving lines into the fresh surface, the sound of my own breathing too loud in the quiet. The overhead lights hummed and buzzed. The door stayed closed.
I drove home with my hair still wet, heater blasting, hands tight on the wheel. Halfway there I missed my turn and had to loop back around, and I sat at the intersection for a full light cycle before I remembered I was supposed to be driving.
Dad was having a bad day.
I could tell before I got to the living room.
The TV was off, and I always left it on low for him.
The curtains were still closed even though it was past nine.
He was sitting in his recliner staring at the wall, and when I came around the corner his eyes moved over my face like I was someone he'd never met.
"Dad. It's me. It's Robert."
He squinted. His hands were shaking where they rested on the arms of his chair.
"Bob?" he said.
That was his own name.
"No, Dad. I'm Junior. Your son."
Something flickered behind his eyes. He grabbed at it, lost it, tried again.
"Junior," he repeated.
"Yeah. That's me."
His face relaxed a little. Not recognition. Just trust. He'd decided to believe me even though he couldn't remember why he should.
I counted out his pills and brought them over with water.
Made him toast because he wouldn't eat anything heavier on days like this.
I sat with him while he chewed slowly, his jaw working like he'd forgotten the rhythm of it.
The morning light came through the gap in the curtains and made a stripe across the carpet, and I watched it move inch by inch while my father ate toast and didn't know who I was.
I cleaned the kitchen. Put a load of laundry in. Sat with Dad while he watched a game show he wouldn't remember.
Around noon, Dad fell asleep. I covered him with the blanket from the couch and stood there looking at him. His face went slack when he slept. The gray in his hair hadn't been there five years ago. He looked small in a way he never had before I moved him out here.
I went to my room and lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
Thursday I didn't set my alarm.
I lay in the dark and listened to Dad's breathing through the thin walls. Outside, the sky was black, not even a hint of gray on the horizon.
I turned over, punched the pillow into a different shape, and closed my eyes.
At 4:23, I got up and brushed my teeth. At 4:31 I put on coffee I didn't drink. At 4:38 I sat at the kitchen table in the dark, keys in my hand, not moving.
The rink would still be there. The ice would still be there. I could skate at normal hours with my team like a person who had his shit together.
I put the keys down, then picked them up again.
I had a game tonight. I had a father who needed me. I had a life that had been working fine before Joel Coffey walked into it, and showing up to an empty rink for the fourth day in a row wasn't going to change anything.
I set the keys on the counter and went back to bed.
I didn't sleep. I lay there and watched the ceiling turn gray, then pale, then bright with morning sun. At eight I got up and made Dad breakfast and counted out his pills and sat with him while he ate, and he knew who I was today, which was something.
Practice was good. I ran drills until my legs burned and my hip screamed and there wasn't room for anything else. Coach pulled me aside after and said I looked focused. I nodded and said I was feeling good.
The game that night was better.
I played like I was trying to prove something to someone who wasn't there.
Three assists. A fight I actually won, some forward who'd been running his mouth all night until I shut it for him.
Santos had to pull me off before I did something stupid, and when I skated to the penalty box, I was grinning so hard my face hurt.
"You looked like a different person out there," Santos said after. We were in the locker room, still in gear, the post-game buzz running through the room.
I drove home and went to bed at eleven like a normal person, setting my alarm for eight.
I woke up at 4:12 anyway and lay there, staring at the same ceiling I'd been staring at all week. Then I turned over, pulled the blanket up, and closed my eyes.
But when I did, all I could see was his face. All I could hear was his voice saying my name.
At 4:47 I was in my truck, driving toward the rink.