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Harper texted me and let me know that she is planning her funeral for Saturday, and I know I’m going to be a blubbering mess. And that’s okay. I grant myself the permission to be sad and destroyed. Because you have to feel it sometimes—the pain of life. You can’t hide from the despair of life; you have to feel your way through it.
24
Reed
“How’s she doing?” Kos asks, skating up to me.
I shrug, and my heart weighs heavy as I answer, “She’s hanging in there. Today’s going to be a hard day for her. But we’ll get through it.”
He pats my shoulder with his glove. “I’m confident you will. If you guys need anything, let me know, okay?”
Nodding, I respond, “Yeah, I will.”
Our water break ends, and we line up for puck drop. Our practice team just needs to score one more to end the scrimmage. Then, morning skate will be done, and I can run a couple of errands before I go home to wake Charlotte up.
I almost didn’t come this morning, opting to stay in bed with her. But I needed this,—to be back on the ice. Something about it is therapeutic. I think all—if not, at least most—hockey players would agree. Nothing feels quite as natural as being on skates. We practically learned to skate before we walked.
Coach blows the whistle and drops the puck. Costy gains control and skates toward our zone. The opposing line picks his pocket, and, damn, he’s flying.
Digging into my skates, I push myself harder, and I’m right on his heels.
“When did you get so fast?” I ask number nineteen as I finally catch up to him and slash at the puck, knocking it off his stick.
“When did you get so damn slow?” he jabs back, laughing.
Burnsy skates on his right, and I push the biscuit his way. Now, we’re racing back the other way. I don’t know why I’m extra tired this morning, but my legs do not have the energy they usually do.
Thankfully, my boys have everything under control as I drag myself into the zone behind everyone else. Burnsy dishes the puck to Kos, then to Costy. Costy skates around the back of the net, and—
He is not … holy shit.
He presses the blade of the stick into the ice, picks up the puck, and lacrosse-style throws it into the net as he comes around the other side.
“Wooooo!” I shout.
That’s a hell of a goal. It’s called a Michigan, the lacrosse-style move of picking the puck up on your stick and in a sense throwing it into the net instead of shooting it. Not a lot of players in the NHL can do this. To be honest, I didn’t really know Costy had that in him.
We all pile into Costy and applaud him on his goal. Not only am I glad we won, but I’m also glad it’s over. I’m fucking tired.
“Good practice, boys,” Kos tells us as we skate over to the coaches at the bench.
They say a few words about what we did well, things they noticed that still need to be finessed more, and what to look forward to tomorrow. We have the next three days off of games, which isn’t very common during the season. But I’ll take it because Char and I need that time together. It doesn’t really matter if we had scheduled games or not; I would be by her side anyway.
We all head to the locker room. I shower quickly and change into my Nighthawks hoodie, Nighthawks beanie, sweats, socks, and tennis shoes.
Before I head home and get ready for the service, I have to stop and get a few things. Pulling into the parking lot of a local grocery store, I grab my wallet and phone. I need to make it pretty quick here.
Walking with intention, I hastily find the floral shop inside. After a quick examination of the choices, I select a few bundles—white roses, white daisies, baby’s breath, and eucalyptus leaves. Of course they don’t come together. But I found a couple of photos online of what I think it should look like, so I’m just going to make it in my truck before I walk in the house. I also pick up a ceramic vase, a bottle of water, and a pair of scissors. I pay and head out to my pickup.
Now, I just have one more place to go before heading home. It’s a little out of the way, but I know it will mean a lot to Charlotte that I’m bringing her a few of her faves this morning.
As I walk into the coffee shop, I smile at the familiar face behind the counter.
“Good morning, Reed!” Morgan says as she finishes making someone’s order.
“Good morning,” I say, walking up to the counter. “I need Charlotte’s usual order.”
“One chocolate croissant and an iced mocha, coming right up. Chlo, would you mind grabbing the croissant?” Morgan asks her bubbly friend.
