Chapter Fourteen Travis
Chapter Fourteen
Travis
The arena smells the same.
That's the first thing I notice when I walk through the doors—the cold, the rubber, the industrial cleaner they use on the floors.
It's been six months since I've been in this building, and nothing has changed.
Same banners hanging from the rafters. Same photos on the walls.
Same security guard at the entrance who nods at me like I never left.
"Good to have you back, Howe."
"Thanks, Charlie."
I head for the locker room, my bag slung over my shoulder, trying to ignore the way my heart is pounding. This was supposed to feel like coming home. This was supposed to feel right. Instead I feel like an imposter, like someone pretending to belong in a place that moved on without him.
The locker room is empty when I arrive. Practice doesn't start for another hour, but I wanted to get here early, ease back in before anyone else showed up.
My locker is still in the same spot, my nameplate still above it.
Someone kept it clean while I was gone—no dust, no abandoned tape rolls, no signs that half a year passed without me here.
I sit down on the bench and stare at the logo on the wall. The team I've played for since I was twenty-two years old. The team that drafted me, developed me, made me into whatever I am now. I gave them everything. And then I gave them a reason to walk away.
They didn't walk away, though. That's the part I can't quite wrap my head around.
Dave called three days ago with the news—the suspension is officially over.
The team wants me back. Not just for practice, but for games.
The coach wants to meet, talk about where I fit in, figure out how to reintegrate me into the lineup.
I should be relieved. I should be grateful. Instead I keep thinking about Kelly, about Longshore, about the cottage that's starting to feel more like home than this place ever did.
The door opens behind me. I turn, expecting a trainer or equipment manager, and instead I see Jaxson Morris—my linemate for the past three years, one of the few guys I'd actually call a friend.
"Holy shit." He stops in the doorway, grinning. "He lives."
"Hey, Marc."
"Hey, Marc? That's all I get?" He crosses the room and pulls me into a hug, clapping me on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of me. "Six months, man. Six months of nothing. I thought you were dead."
"Just hiding."
"Yeah, I heard." He sits down on the bench next to me, his grin fading into something more serious. "You okay? For real?"
I think about the question. Am I okay? I'm better than I was six months ago, when I was drowning in grief and anger and couldn't see a way out. But okay feels like a stretch.
"I'm getting there," I say.
"Good. That's good." He nods slowly. "Look, I'm not going to ask about what happened. I saw the video, same as everyone else. I figure if you want to talk about it, you will."
"I appreciate that."
"But I am going to say this." He turns to face me. "Whatever you did, whatever the reason—you're still one of us. The guys, the team, we didn't forget that. Some of the front office people have opinions, sure. But in this room? You're still Travis. You're still our guy."
Something tightens in my throat. I didn't expect this. I expected awkwardness and distance. I didn't expect Jaxson to look me in the eye and tell me I still belong.
"Thanks, Marc."
"Don't get soft on me." He punches my shoulder. "Now get dressed. We've got practice in an hour, and you look like you haven't skated in months."
"I've been skating."
"At some rinky-dink rink in Virginia? That doesn't count."
"How do you know about that?"
He grins. "Dave talks. He's worried about you, man. Keeps saying you're not returning his calls."
"I've been busy."
"Busy doing what? Hiding in a cottage? Finding yourself?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or is there something else going on that you're not telling me?"
I think about Kelly. About the date, the kiss, the way she looked at me when she said she fell for the guy who fixed her sink. I haven't told anyone about her. I haven't told anyone about anything.
"There might be something," I admit.
Jaxson's eyes go wide. "Something like a woman something?"
"Maybe."
"Howe." He grabs my shoulders. "You're telling me you disappeared for six months, and you came back with a girlfriend?"
"She's not my—I don't know what she is. It's new."
"But there's a she. There's an actual human woman who's putting up with your brooding ass."
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood. It's your whole thing." He's grinning again, delighted. "Okay, you have to tell me everything. Name, job, how you met, all of it."
"After practice."
"That's not fair."
"Life's not fair. Get dressed."
He grumbles but lets it go, heading to his own locker while I finally start unpacking my bag. The familiar routine settles over me—gear on, skates laced, tape around my stick. My body knows what to do even when my brain is somewhere else.
Somewhere in Longshore, probably. Wondering what Kelly's doing right now, whether she's writing or eating breakfast or thinking about me the way I'm thinking about her.
I texted her this morning before I left. Just a quick message, letting her know I'd be gone for a few days.
Practice with the team. I’ll be back Thursday.
Her response came immediately: Good luck. Try not to beat anyone up.
Very funny.
I thought so. Miss you already.
Three words that shouldn't mean as much as they do. Miss you already. Like I'm someone worth missing.
Practice is brutal.
I knew I'd lost some conditioning—six months of skating alone isn't the same as six months of team practices and games—but I didn't realize how much until I'm gasping for air halfway through the first drill.
The guys are faster than I remember, sharper, their passes crisp and accurate while I'm still trying to find my rhythm.
It's not just physical. It's mental too.
Every time someone skates too close, I tense up.
Every time there's contact—a bump, a check, the normal collision of bodies that happens a hundred times a practice—I have to force myself not to react.
I keep seeing that photographer's face. Keep feeling my fist connect with his jaw. Keep waiting for something to snap.
Coach Morrison watches from the boards, his face unreadable. He's been with the team for fifteen years, seen plenty of players come and go, dealt with scandals worse than mine. But he hasn't said a word to me since I arrived—just a nod of acknowledgment when I stepped onto the ice, nothing more.
I wonder what he's thinking. Whether he's glad to have me back, or whether he's just going through the motions because the front office told him to. Whether he trusts me, or whether he's waiting for me to prove I can't be trusted.
I push through. That's what I've always done. When things get hard, you don't stop—you push through until they're not hard anymore. I've built my whole career on that mentality. Play through the pain. Ignore the doubt. Keep moving until the whistle blows.
But somewhere around the third drill, I realize something has shifted. The hunger isn't there. The desperation to prove myself, to earn my spot, to be the best on the ice—it's dimmed. I'm skating the patterns, making the plays, doing everything I'm supposed to do. But my heart isn't in it.
I'm going through the motions. And I don't know how to stop.
After practice, I stay on the ice while everyone else heads to the locker room. I skate slow laps around the rink, feeling the cold air on my face, listening to the silence. This used to be my favorite part—the empty arena, the fresh ice, the feeling of being alone with the game I loved.
Now it just feels lonely.
I think about the rink in Longshore. The burned-out sign, the ancient Zamboni, Frank watching me from the boards without saying much. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't professional. But it felt like mine in a way this place never has.
Maybe that's the difference. Here, I'm a commodity. A player, an asset, a name on a roster. In Longshore, I was just a guy who needed somewhere to skate. No pressure, no expectations, no one waiting to see if I'd fail.
I do a few more laps, then finally head for the locker room. Most of the guys have already showered and left. Jaxson is still there, though, sitting on the bench like he was waiting for me.
"Hey." He stands up. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
"Tired, or something else?"
I lift my head and look at him. Jaxson has known me for years. He can read me better than almost anyone. There's no point lying.
"I don't know if I want this anymore," I say.
He doesn't react, just waits for me to continue.
"Being here, skating with the team—it used to be the only thing that mattered. But now..." I shake my head. "I keep thinking about Virginia. About the life I was building there. And this feels like going backwards."
"Maybe it is."
"What?"
"Maybe it is going backwards." He shrugs. "Look, I love hockey. I'm going to play until my body falls apart. But that's me. Everyone's different. If you found something that makes you happy, something that feels more right than this, maybe that's worth paying attention to."
"But this is my career. This is everything I've worked for."
"So? People change careers all the time. They walk away from things that aren't serving them anymore." He leans back against the locker. "The question is whether you're walking away because you're scared, or because you genuinely want something different."
I think about it. Am I scared? Scared of what happened, scared it could happen again, scared of who I become when I'm under this much pressure?
Or do I just want something different?
"I don't know," I admit.
"Then figure it out." Jaxson stands up. "But do it soon. Because if you're going to be here, you need to be all the way here. The team deserves that. You deserve that."
He heads for the showers, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
My phone buzzes in my bag. I pull it out and see a text from Kelly.
How was practice?
I stare at the screen for a long moment. Then I type back: Hard. In a lot of ways.
Want to talk about it?
When I get back. There's a lot to figure out.
I'll be here.
Three words again. I'll be here. Simple and steady and exactly what I need to hear.
I put the phone away and start peeling off my gear. I don't have answers yet. I don't know what I want or who I'm supposed to be. But I know one thing for certain.
Whatever I decide, Kelly is part of the equation now. She's the thing I keep coming back to, the thing that makes the rest of it make sense.
I just have to figure out what that means.
The drive back to the hotel takes twenty minutes.
I've got a room downtown, close to the arena, paid for by the team as part of my "reintegration process.
" It's nice—nicer than anywhere I've stayed in months—but it feels sterile.
Anonymous. Like a place you pass through on the way to somewhere else.
I order room service and eat in front of the TV without watching it. My body is tired but my mind won't stop spinning. Tomorrow there's another practice. Then a team meeting. Then a game on Saturday that I might or might not be cleared to play in.
A month ago, that uncertainty would have killed me. Now I'm not sure I care either way.
I pick up my phone and dial before I can talk myself out of it.
Kelly answers on the second ring. "Hey. I thought you were too tired to talk."
"I changed my mind." I lean back against the headboard. "Is that okay?"
"That's more than okay." I can hear her smile through the phone. "Tell me everything."
So I do. I tell her about the arena, the locker room, Jaxson and Coach Morrison and the way practice felt wrong in ways I can't quite explain.
I tell her about staying on the ice after everyone left, skating laps and wondering what I'm doing here.
I tell her about the question I can't stop asking myself: is this still what I want?
She listens without interrupting. That's one of the things I love about her—she knows when to talk and when to let me figure things out on my own.
"What do you think?" I ask when I'm done.
"I think you already know the answer," she says. "You're just scared to admit it."
"That's very insightful."
"I'm a writer. Insight is my whole thing."
I laugh despite myself. "I miss you."
"I miss you too." A pause. "Come home soon, okay? Whatever you decide about hockey, just... come home."
Home. She said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like Longshore—like her—is where I belong.
Maybe she's right.
"I'll be back Thursday," I say.
"I'll be here."
"I know you will."