Page 5 of Hearts on Ice
I stood and my mouth went dry. On the ice, everything slowed when pucks flew—angles, traffic, my own breath. Here, the edges blurred. I carried the guitar up the two steps, planted it by the stool, and sat. The Crossbar’s spotlight threw heat onto my shoulders. I checked the tuning by muscle memory. E, A, D, G, B, E. The guitar smelled faintly of polish and time.
I leaned into the mic and let the first chords of “Hallelujah” roll out. Not my song, but a song that had weight, one everybody knew well enough to hum along.
Music always kept me grounded. Hockey got the hours, but this—this filled the space my brother left behind. He’d had hands for the guitar too, before the pain, before the pills, before everything unraveled. I carried the instrument like a promise to both of us, even when missing him ached deep and quiet, like a pulled muscle that never healed.
Halfway through the verse, my eyes lifted, scanning the tables. Teammates, strangers, a mix of faces—and then, in the back near the door, a tall figure. Mack.
Coach hadn’t come with us. He stood apart, one hand braced on a chair, shadowed by the dim light. I wasn’t expecting him, and the sight jolted me. My fingers stuttered once, the chord slipping. Probably sounded like improvisation to anyone else, but to me it felt like a skate catching bad ice.
I pulled it back, tightened the line, pushed through the chorus. Kept my eyes on the strings, but I felt his gaze from the back of the room, steady and unreadable.
When the last note fell, the applause came—cheers, whistles, Jester’s too-loud whoop. Tank’s palm hit the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. Lily stood and clapped above her head because of course she did. I ducked my head, heat in my face that had nothing to do with the light.
Back at the booth, Lily tugged me into the seat and shoved water at me. “Perfect,” she said. “You needed that.”
“Not bad,” Beau offered, which from him felt like a thesis on excellence.
“Good job, man,” Jester said.
I grinned and tried to let the noise fold over me—garlic, lemon cleaner, the high tinny ring in my ears that always came after a stage. Still, something tugged at the edges of my attention. I let my eyes travel to the back of the room again.
But this time, all I saw was someone who wasn’t Coach.
Maybe he’d come for a beer, or for quiet, or because this was the team’s usual hang-out and he wanted to see what we were like when it wasn’t drills and video. It wouldn’t be the first timehe did that over the years I’d known him. I wondered what he thought of my performance tonight. It wouldn’t have been the first time he saw me on stage. If memory served, the last time he saw me was when Ry and Xander hosted a Christmas get-together last year.
“Earth to Maestro.” Lily flicked a drop of water at my cheek. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere,” I said, wiping it off. “Here.”
She studied me the way she studied a sprain—gently, but with intent. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I reached for a wing and pretended to argue with Jester over whether drums or flats were superior. The table picked sides. Tank declared flats were more aerodynamic. Devin laughed.
Later, when the noise softened and the host thanked everyone for coming, I packed my guitar. The strings chimed once when the case latched, that small ghost of sound following me as I stood.
Lili bumped my shoulder as we filed toward the door. “Proud of you,” she said.
“Gracias,” I murmured.
Outside, night air folded cool over my skin. The Crossbar’s neon buzzed behind us; a siren wailed somewhere and faded into the distance. The team peeled off toward cars and rideshares, voices spilling into the lot, promises to do this again soon tossed over shoulders.
I ordered my ride too, wincing at the fare before sliding into the back seat. Gas was high, tips added up, and I told myself that tomorrow I’d bike instead. But for now, the quiet suited me.
Still, as the car pulled away, I couldn’t shake the image of a man standing by the wall, quiet, watching me, saying nothing at all.
Chapter 4
Drew
Cool air pressed against my skin as I stood outside the community center doors, coffee cooling in a paper cup in my hand. Saturday morning, too early for excuses. Too late to keep pretending silence was enough. Six years, almost to the month. I hadn’t walked into this building in ages, but staying outside hadn’t helped either. So I pushed the door open and went in.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flat and unforgiving. A circle of folding chairs, a box of tissues balanced on a chair in the middle. A sign-in clipboard that I barely touched.
“First names only,” Marsha said gently from her seat at the circle’s edge.
Gray-streaked hair, soft cardigan, presence steady as a metronome. “Share as much or as little as you want. We don’t fix each other here; we witness.”
A college kid in a wrinkled hoodie stared at his sneakers, laces gripped with white knuckles. “Hey everyone. I’m Zachary. My mom died in June. Since then I can’t focus. Not in class, notwith friends. It’s like half of me went wherever she went.” He scrubbed at his face and sat back hard.
