Page 126 of Ruled Out

I’ve stepped out onto the ice more times than I can count.

To be honest, at this point, I’m not sure which my body feels more at ease with—the ice or a regular walking surface.

Graham Jenkins picked me up as a young kid and gave me a chance to play the game I loved. But it was my papa who first introduced me to the ice, taking me to the local rink one Saturday morning.

Despite being a huge fan, he never got a chance to go to a Destroyers game because he didn’t have the money for tickets. When they got first pick and drafted me, that was my only wish at the time. I wished he’d still been here to see me sign the contract he had been convinced I’d secure one day.

Dad always said he was a dreamer, a factory worker with visions of grandeur that did no one any good. Before I was earning big money and lining his pockets, he said I’d be better off ditching hockey and living in the real world. People like us didn’t make a name for ourselves.

Papa died when I was ten, but he did get to see me enter Graham’s program, and I’ll never forget his face when I told him Graham had contacted my school, asking about me.

That was the thing about my papa and the reason why he bucked the trend when it came to my family. His tears of joy weren’t for anyone but me. He knew I was destined for greatness, and he told me that every damn day.

He also told me the second I played for the headlines, the fame, the money, or for anyone else, then it was over.

I had to play for me.

Every game was just like in the little leagues.

Every time I laced up my skates, it was to pursue my dreams and no one else’s.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my papa’s voice. Initially, I thought it was because my love for the game had disappeared, and I was left doing exactly what he’d pleaded with me never to do—to play for someone or something other than me.

But now, I know my love for hockey never disappeared; it was just buried beneath the weight of trauma, unrecognizable as I searched for self-validation and a reason to feel worthy. I was trying to score goals for all the wrong reasons.

When my first blade hits the fresh ice before I kit up for regular morning practice, the feeling I get is anything but normal.

Finally, I can hear myself. I can hear my skates as they cut through the ice.

I feel lighter—and not just because I’ve gone weeks without touching a drop of alcohol.

For the first time since I can remember, I’m doing this for myself. For the love of the game. I can hear my papa because he isn’t being drowned out by the goddamn bullshit noise in my head.

The ice is empty since I got here before my teammates.

When Mia asked me why I was leaving so soon, I told her I needed to get ahead of the others and be alone with the ice for a while. She didn’t question it; she just smiled and kissed me goodbye.

Without giving it much thought, I head over and pick up a stack of red cones set out on the side, ready for practice.

Skating around the ice, I arrange them in the formation I know Coach Burrows has planned. Red cones are reserved only for sprint and agility tests.

I wait for the fear of failure to take hold and tell me I can’t do this. I wait for the excuses to come barreling toward me as I finish laying them out along the ice.

Except I don’t feel any of those things when I pull up at the center line and close my eyes. When I draw in a deep breath, all I can smell is the freezing ice beneath me. All I can feel is my heart as it beats in a regular pattern. All I can hear are my own welcome thoughts. And all I can see is Mia as she lay beneath me this morning, her cheeks matching the color of her rosy lips as I pushed inside her and took us both to the brink of ecstasy.

When I hit the first corner, I don’t overthink or analyze my weight distribution. I’m on autopilot, my body powered by my unhindered mind.

The freezing air whips past my face as I take the second corner.

It’s this part right here, halfway around, when I usually slow up. The adrenaline working against me as I convince myself there’s no way I made the time. I don’t deserve to make a good time.

But my brain doesn’t even go there.

Because this lap is forme.

As I cross the line and hit the brakes, I throw my head back and stare at the bright lights overhead, my hands propped on my hips as I take in oxygen.

“Fuck, that one was fast,” I whisper into the silent arena.

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