Page 103 of The Pucking Date
The espresso’sstill burning in my chest an hour later when I suit up for practice.
Pads go on. Tape wraps tight. The rest of the guys are loud, joking, stretching, tossing around nicknames like it’s just another Tuesday. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like something cracked open and didn’t close.
It’s just a light skate—game day routine—but my limbs are tight and my brain won’t quit. I need this. The noise. The glide. The hit of speed under control.
Nate’s already on the ice, chirping from the far zone.
Out on the ice, Coach runs us through a light sequence. Zone drills. Puck movement. Nothing heavy, just rhythm, and timing.
I’ve got none of it.
Nate skates up beside me. “Look who’s fancy now,” he says. “Contract’s barely dry, and you’re already missing passes?”
I don’t look at him.
“Still can’t believe they gave you eighty-four mil to stay sexy and score goals. Must be the hair.”
“Not today, guys,” Liam cuts in from the other end of the line. “Let’s focus on the ice.” Calm, but sharp. The warning lives in his tone.
Nate backs off, mutters something about chill pills, but doesn’t push it.
I skate the drills. Breathe through the weight. Fumble a puck again and catch Coach’s eyes flick to me, then away.
Liam shadows me through the entire practice . He’s not hovering, but I can tell he’s letting me know that he’s there and that he knows.
I want to hit the boxing ring. Burn this tension off with gloves and sweat and a target that won’t flinch. But we’ve got Guardians tonight, and Rothschild will have a coronary if I show up bruised.
Thirty minutes pass. Then we’re back in the locker room. Steam, towels, protein shakes. The playlist thumps. Guys are talking lines and ice time, plans for after.
Guardians. Preseason rivalry. Tickets are comped, but the stands will still be packed.
I towel off in silence, peeling my socks off slowly, methodically, pretending my mind isn’t chewing itself raw.
My phone buzzes on the bench, and for a wrenching second, I think it’s her. Not that she’d come fix it. Not that I’d let her, even if she tried.
Aoife: You around?
Aoife: Call me when you can
Aoife: It’s about Dad
I call her right there, tucked in the corner near the cold tub while the guys argue about playlist rights.
She picks up fast. No hello.
“He’s not doing well,” she says quietly. “You should come home soon. If you want to see him.”
My stomach knots. “Is he asking for me?”
A beat.
“No. He barely talks anymore. Just smiles. But...I thought you’d want the chance.”
I close my eyes. “He hasn’t been there in a long time.”
“I know,” she says. “But this version? He’s almost gone.”
The ache deepens. Old and familiar and sharp as ever.
