Page 6 of Hearts on Ice
An older widower—lined cheeks, workman’s hands—cleared his throat. “I’m George. It’s been two years since my Edith passed. Anniversaries are loud. I hear her in the house even when I know I’m alone.”
“I’m Sarah,” a young woman said, twisting a tissue between her fingers until it tore. “My son lived twelve days.” Her voice thinned but didn’t break. “I still fold the crib sheet every morning before I leave for work.” She scrunched the shredded tissue in her hand, avoiding looking at anyone directly.
Eyes moved to me.
“I’m Drew,” I said. “In a couple of months, it will be six years since my wife and our daughter died in a plane crash.”
Silence settled without pressing. I let out a breath I hadn’t noticed holding. “Back then I was playing hockey. My knee went, and not long after, I moved behind the bench. I threw myself into the job because working was easier than grieving. If I kept moving, maybe the weight of it wouldn’t catch me. It still does. Most days all I feel is quiet. I’d like to feel something else.”
The words hung in the air. No one rushed to fill them. Across the circle, the widower gave a small nod, as if to say he understood. The young mother’s shredded tissue spilled in her lap, but her eyes met mine for half a second before darting away. Marsha didn’t speak yet, just let the silence breathe. I shifted in my chair, hands knotted together, waiting—for judgment, for pity, for something that never came. Only the quiet of being witnessed.
A woman in her sixties spoke about losing her sister; a man across from me rubbed his wedding band and shared how he sleeps on the couch now.
Marsha looked around the circle. “You all did something important today,” she said. “You showed up and told the truth about what hurts. That’s not easy. Grief’s heavy, but it gets a little lighter when someone else knows you’re carrying it.” She paused, her tone soft but steady. “Before next week, try to make one small ritual for yourself. Something you can do once a week to honor what you’ve lost—or to remind yourself you’re still here. Maybe it’s a walk, lighting a candle, writing a note. It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be yours.”
The scrape of chairs broke the spell when the circle ended. I passed on the urn of stale coffee, stepped back into sunlight. The air was a little warmer now, the kind of soft morning that didn’t demand anything. I pulled out my phone, thumbed JB a text.
Me: I’ll swing by the rink later. Keep the guys’ recovery light today—short sessions, easy pace. Bodies are worn out from the first week of camp.
*****
The rink lobby smelled like rubber mats and faint disinfectant when I walked in. Weekend half-light, compressor humming under the ice. In the training space, bands stretched, players scattered across the floor.
“Mobility first,” Lily called, her ponytail swishing as she demonstrated a hip opener. Spirited as ever, she had them moving. Tank grunted through the stretch while Jester cracked a soft joke about barn doors. Devin wrestled with a resistance band, jaw tight, shoulders hunched. Miguel sat with a lacrosse ball under his calf, slow rolls working out knots. A bike helmet leaned against his bag—another reminder most of these guys didn’t have cars. He’d pedaled here.
I kept quiet, signed the clipboard, unlocked the equipment cage. No speeches.
When my eyes caught Miguel’s, I paused.
“PR’s keeping the podcast rotation this season,” I told him. “Next up is you and Jester onRoaring Success.”
He nodded. “Got it, Coach.”
I started to move on, then hesitated. “It was good to see you outside the rink, Maestro.”
His head came up, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You too. I didn’t realize you were there until I got on stage.”
“I kept to the back.” My tone stayed even, but something about saying it felt… closer than it should have. “You’ve got a hell of a voice. Stronger than the last time I heard you play.”
A hint of color touched his ears. “Thanks. Guess the acoustics did me a favor.”
“Don’t sell it short,” I said. “Guitar work was sharp too. You’ve got good hands for it.”
He ducked his head, pretending to adjust his grip on the resistance band. “I try to keep them busy.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “I don’t play anything, but I’ve always leaned on music. Kenny G when I was younger. Santana. ‘Maria Maria’—I wore that track out.”
“Classic,” he said, mouth curving. “I grew up trying to play along with John Mayer. Sometimes Alejandro Sanz. Depended on my mood.”
“Coach, this band’s pinching,” Devin called from across the mats, tugging at the strap around his thigh.
I straightened, voice slipping back into command. “Loosen it a notch. Pain isn’t proof you’re working—control is.”
Devin adjusted, relief flashing across his face. When I glanced back, Miguel was already focused on the next drill—but his smile lingered, just a little.
He shifted into position, shoulders loose, rhythm steady. And then, under the low hum of machines and the thud of weights, I caught it—a quiet thread of sound. “Maria Maria.” Just a few bars, hummed more than sung. The notes were low, unguarded, like the kind of thing you do when you forget anyone’s listening.
I looked away before it turned into staring, but the tune stayed with me longer than it should have.
