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“How do the legs feel?” Kirill asks. His name is Russian, as that’s where he was born, but his mother emigrated when he was really young to Australia. She met and married his stepfather, a native Aussie, and when Kirill was ten, they moved to Canada where he got his first taste of hockey. His natural talent is so immense, it didn’t matter that he started playing a good four years after other players got their start on the ice.
“They’re strong,” I reply as I skate by him, tapping my stick on the ice in a request for a puck. “But I’ve been working out pretty hard.”
Stone slides the puck my way, and I dribble it as I make my way around a few more times to get my bearings. I cut inward toward the unoccupied goal. I flip the puck in the air, no more than the height of my knee, and then execute a fast backhand to knock it into the net.
“He’s still got it.” Stone laughs, and then I’m shocked when I hear applause.
Looking around, I see people have lined up along the boards to watch, which isn’t all that unusual. All of us would’ve been recognized, and word would’ve spread some of the Titans were on the ice.
But I’m stunned that I’m getting applause. I figured I’m mostly hated.
“Looking good, Coen,” a man calls out.
“You’re going to kill it next year.”
A teenage boy stands near the boards. “Coen… Coen… can I get a picture?”
No way I’m going to be a dick to a kid, so I skate over and let him take a selfie with me.
And… it’s not so bad.
“Come on, hot stuff,” Gage calls out. “Let’s see what you got.”
I offer the kid a smile and push off from the boards, surprisingly eager to see if I’m going to love or hate playing again.
♦
Brushing my fingersthrough my damp hair, I walk out of the dressing room. The shower was much needed. The pickup game was mostly just us horsing around, but I was drenched in sweat by the end. My left arm is fucking sore from using it solely since I was on the team of four, but it’s a good ache.
I keep my head down as I walk out of the facility, hoping to discourage people from approaching. While this little foray back onto the ice and hanging with my teammates ended up being a pleasant experience with minimal guilt, I’m not ready for more notoriety. I’m still not sure what any of this even means.
In the parking lot, the guys are waiting for me. We say our goodbyes and Hendrix tries to convince me to come back for another pickup game some time, but I’m noncommittal.
When it’s just Gage and Stone left, they follow me to my truck to collect Brooks’s stuff.
I pull out the box I packed and sealed with tape and hand it to Stone.
“Thanks for bringing this,” he says, his voice heavy with emotion. Say what you will about my issues, but this guy lost his little brother in the crash and then essentially took his place on the team. Talk about a mind fuck.
But he got his shit together and made it work, a nagging voice says.
“How long are you in town?” Gage asks.
“Heading back in the morning. I’ve only got a few hours of packing to do.”
“Then that leaves you plenty of time to come out to dinner with us tonight,” he says with a sly smile.
Walked right into that one. “I don’t know,” I say, glancing away at nothing really. Just having a hard time saying no to his face.
“Don’t stop pushing forward,” Gage says, and my head whips back his way. Not just because of his words, but because of his tone, of the wisdom that hangs thick within the syllables.
As if he knows something so important, my life might depend on it.
I glance at Stone, who says nothing, but he wears the same expression as Gage.
Both of them look as if I’m about to fall off the edge of a bridge, and they’re not sure when to grab for me.
Gage lays it out, and he doesn’t pull any punches. “You don’t have to tell us what a big deal this was for you to come here and play. For you to even put yourself out there to hang with us. It’s a big fucking deal, and you know it too. Whatever got your butt motivated to try to sort out your shit, you need to ride that wave. Don’t stop pushing forward, Coen. You can do this.”
