Page 45 of Lost on Ice
“Damn it,” I mutter, easing my foot off the gas and slowing down. What’s the point in any of this if I kill myself driving to the city?
By the time I make it to Boston and pull into the rink’s parking lot, I’m a bit calmer but still on edge. I slam the car door shut and head inside, the crisp chill of the arena hitting me like a slap in the face.
Entering the locker room, the smell of old sweat, fresh tape, and whatever cologne Drew drowns himself in hits all at once. Music’s playing, someone’s chirping about last night’s fight in the third period, and the energy is familiar and comforting.
“Hey, look who finally decided to show up,” Tucker grins at me as I step inside, tossing his water bottle from hand to hand, his blue eyes twinkling.
I smirk. “Try winning a faceoff before you talk trash.”
“Man’s been back in town five minutes and he’s already got a mouth,” Drew adds, slapping me on the back as I drop my bag on the bench. He grins, revealing even white teeth beneath his thick black beard.
“That’s ‘cause he’s living the quiet suburban life now,” Tucker says with a mock-serious face, tugging his jersey on. “You know what that means, right?”
“Oh, here we go,” I mutter, peeling off my hoodie and grabbing my base layer.
“It means this is yourCarterseason,” Tucker continues. “Back to Ivy Glen, picket fence life. You’ll play out the year, then retire quietly to coach peewee hockey.”
“Don’t forget the flannel shirts,” Drew throws in, grinning as he grabs his hockey pants from his locker.
“Maybe a dog named Scout,” someone else calls from the back.
I snap my head up, tossing a roll of tape at Tucker hard enough that he fumbles it. “I’m not Carter.”
They all laugh, but I can feel the tension tightening in my spine. When Carter settled down, he retired from hockey — left to start a new life. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not done, and I don’t want any of them to start thinking I’m on my way out just because I’m back in Ivy Glen right now.
“I’ve got stuff to take care of,” I say firmly. “That’s it. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be back full-time when I’m done.”
“Alright, alright,” Tucker holds up his hands. “No one’s kicking you out, man. Chill.”
Drew bumps my shoulder as he walks past. “He just doesn’t want to admit he missed us.”
I snort. “Please. I’d have to miss functioning brain cells for that.”
“Better hope you don’t lose more tonight,” Coach barks as he walks in. “Film session in five. Move it.”
We shuffle into the side room, and the lights dim as the screen flickers on. We sit through footage from last night—blurry replays of that second-period turnover, Tucker botching a breakout pass, and me dropping gloves with that rookie from Minnesota who thought it’d be cute to throw an elbow at Drew.
I watch myself on screen—jaw clenched, arms swinging, blood on my cheek. It feels like watching someone else. Like I don’t quite recognize that version of me right now. He looks so sure of what he’s fighting for.
When it’s over, we head back out to the ice for drills. My body moves the way it always does—fast, instinctual, and locked into the rhythm of the game. It’s muscle memory now. I don’t have to think.
But even as I skate, I feel the ache of something deeper settling in.
Lilah’s laugh. The feel of Abbie’s eyes on me when she thinks I don’t notice. The way the apartment smells in the morning.
I shove the thoughts down and drive toward the net like I’ve got something to prove.
Because maybe I do.
I’m not Carter.
I’m not a family man.
And I’m not done kicking ass on the ice.
Chapter Sixteen
ABBIE
