Page 133 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Sorry, Coach,” Reed calls back. “Got distracted.”

“I can see that. Dr. Clark, welcome to the facility. Looking forward to working with you.”

“Thank you, Coach. Sorry for the disruption.”

“No disruption. Just good to see Hendrix smiling for reasons that don’t involve hitting people.”

Laughter ripples across the ice from players who’ve clearly been briefed on Reed’s history. But it’s friendly laughter, welcoming rather than mocking.

“Alright,” I tell Reed, stepping carefully back toward solid ground. “Go play hockey. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He skates backward toward his teammates. “I like the sound of that.”

As practice resumes around us, I watch from the stands,marveling at how right this feels. Not perfect—we’ll have complications, professional challenges, the inevitable growing pains of building something real instead of just surviving something impossible.

But right. Like we’re finally moving in the same direction instead of just orbiting each other’s chaos.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Welcome to Seattle. Heard you might be staying a while. - Dave (equipment manager)

Then another:Unknown: Welcome to Icehawks. Happy to have you. - Jenny (team nutritionist)

And another:Unknown: If you need restaurant recommendations, I’ve got you covered. - Gary (goalie)

One by one, messages from team staff and players welcoming me not just as their new mental performance coach, but as part of whatever extended family they’ve built here.

It’s more belonging than I’ve felt in years. Not because of my credentials or professional achievements, but because I’m the person who makes their teammate happy. Because love, it turns out, is its own kind of qualification.

I settle into the stands to watch the rest of practice, surrounded by the sounds of skates on ice and voices calling plays and the particular energy of athletes who love what they do.

Tomorrow, I start my new job officially. Next week, Reed and I will probably have our first fight about work-life balance or whose turn it is to do dishes. Next month, we’ll face whatever challenges come with mixing professional and personal in ways that would have terrified me a year ago.

But today, I sit in the stands of a Seattle hockey rink, watching the man I love play the game he loves, in a city we chosetogether.

Today, that’s enough.

More than enough.

It’s everything.

49

New beginnings smell like fresh tape and sound like twenty strangers sizing you up while pretending to lace their skates.

I walk into the Seattle Icehawks locker room for the first time as an official member of the team, taking in the gleaming facilities and pristine equipment stalls. Everything’s state-of-the-art, designed to scream “we’re building something special here.” The kind of place that makes you want to live up to the investment they’ve made in chrome and possibility.

“Hendrix, right?” A voice calls from across the room. I turn to see a guy about my age with the build of a defenseman and the easy confidence of someone who’s never doubted his place on a roster. “Brennan Parks. Heard you were coming.”

“That’s me. Thanks for the welcome.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you see how we practice.” But he’s grinning when he says it, the kind of chirp that says, ‘we’re teammates now’ instead of ‘prove you belong here.’

The rest of the introductions happen naturally—guys drifting over between getting dressed, casual conversation that feels more like curiosity than interrogation. They know my history, obviously. You don’t trade for someone with my reputation without the whole room knowing exactly what baggage you’re bringing.

But nobody mentions Chicago. Nobody asks about the suspensions or the anger management or why a team would take a chance on someone who’s been more liability than asset for the past two years. They just treat me like the newest guy, which is exactly what I am.

“You been to Seattle before?” asks Turner, our goalie, pulling on pads.

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