Page 96 of Off-Limits as Puck

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. But starting over means getting to meet you guys, so maybe it’s not all bad.”

She considers this with nine-year-old wisdom. “My mom says mistakes are just practice for doing better next time.”

“Your mom sounds smart.”

“She is. She’s also single, if you’re interested.”

I nearly choke on my water. “Sophie—”

“What? You seem nice. She likes hockey. You both have all your teeth.” She shrugs like she’s solved world hunger. “Just saying.”

After practice, I stay late to help put away equipment, not ready to return to my empty apartment and the silence that follows me everywhere these days. The rink at night has a different energy—peaceful, almost sacred, like a church for people who worship speed and precision instead of higher powers.

“Thanks for staying,” Maria says, locking up the equipment room. “The kids really responded to you tonight.”

“They’re good kids.”

“They are. And you’re good with them. Have you thought about getting back into coaching long-term? After hockey?”

After hockey. Like it’s already over instead of just beginning again.

“Not really. This is just... temporary. Until I figure out what’s next.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Well, temporary or not, you’re making a difference. Sophie’s been practicing those slap shots you showed her. Her mom says she talks about Coach Reed constantly.”

“Hope that’s not annoying.”

“Are you kidding? It’s the first time she’s been excited about anything since her dad moved out last year.” Maria’s expression softens. “Sometimes people need someone to believe in them. Kids especially.”

I drive home thinking about belief and second chances and kids who think mistakes are just practice. In my apartment—sterile corporate housing that feels like an expensive hotel—I make dinner I barely taste and scroll through hockey news I’m not mentioned in.

It’s better this way. Quiet. Controlled. No scandals, no headlines, no photographers lurking outside rinks hoping to catch me in another meltdown.

It’s also slowly killing what’s left of my soul.

Thursday afternoon, I’m sitting in Dr. Walsh’s office for my weekly session—voluntary this time, not court-mandated. She’s older, calmer, less likely to challenge me than Chelsea ever was. Which makes these sessions feel like therapy instead of warfare.

“How are the kids?” she asks, settling into her chair with the kind of patience that costs two hundred dollars an hour.

“Good. Really good. Tommy finally made it through practice without falling. Sophie’s developing a wicked slap shot.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Like maybe I’m good for something other than checking peopleinto boards.”

“You’ve always been good for more than that.”

“Have I? Because my track record suggests otherwise.”

“Your track record suggests you’re human. Flawed, like everyone else, but capable of growth.” She makes a note. “Tell me about the moments when you feel most like yourself.”

“On the ice with the kids. Teaching them fundamentals. Watching them get excited about small improvements.” I pause. “It’s pure. No politics, no media, no expectations beyond having fun and getting better.”

“What about before? In Chicago? Were there moments like that?”

The question I’ve been avoiding for months. Because the answer involves saying her name out loud, acknowledging that the best parts of who I was happened when Chelsea was around.

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