Page 196 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

"I was thinking worse."

"What could possibly be worse?"

Coach smiles. "I'll tell Annette."

I groan. "That's low."

"It'll work."

He pats my good shoulder once. "C'mon, Captain."

Together we walk down the narrow hallway toward the rink.

The closer we get, the louder the sounds become.

Skates carving fresh ice. Pucks striking the boards. Laughter. Voices echoing beneath the arena roof.

I haven't heard those sounds from this side of the tunnel in months.

Coach stops just before the gate. He doesn't give a speech. He doesn't need one. He simply opens the door. "Go take your first lap."

I step onto the ice. The cold air rushes around me like an old friend. For one brief moment...I don't move. I simply stand there. Then I push off. One easy stride. Then another. The blades whisper across the ice beneath me, steady and familiar.

The movement isn't perfect yet. There's still caution in every turn and a quiet awareness of my shoulder. But none of that matters. I'm skating.

Not because someone promised I would. Because I'm finally here. Halfway around the rink I glance toward the glass.

Annette is standing quietly near the players' bench. She isn't clapping. She isn't waving. She simply smiles. It’s the kind of smile that says she knew this day would come long before I did.

I find myself smiling back. When I complete the first lap somehow it feels like the beginning of something much bigger than getting back on the ice.

***

I coast toward the blue line, letting the familiar rhythm settle into my legs. The shoulder feels different on the ice than it did in the therapy gym. Not worse, just honest. Every turn asks a quiet question. Every movement answers it.

Coach watches from the boards with his arms folded. "How's it feel?"

I circle back toward him. "I forgot how much I missed this."

"You've got twenty minutes."

"I'll take every second."

He nods once. "Good. Remember why you're here." "To skate."

"To leave healthy."

I grin. "Annette's been talking to you."

"I've been listening."

Before I can answer, a puck slides gently toward my stick. The pass is soft enough that I hardly have to move. I look up. Ethan. The rookie raises both hands innocently. "I wasn't testing you."

"No?"

"I was making sure you still know which end of the stick to use." I receive the pass cleanly and send it back. "That's encouraging."

"It looked rusty."