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Nine
Joel
It was strange as fuck, going to practice in a town full of skeletons.
The rink itself was okay and though there were some smoke stains on the exterior of the arena and the trees lining the far end of the parking lot where burnt, what I could see of the inside looked exactly the same. Minus the ice, of course, which had needed to be remade (no power, no cold…noice).
Metal rattled as I yanked open one of the outer doors that were flanked by large windows on either side of the entrance. It was a familiar clatter—the handle jiggling on the open and banging against the surrounding metal frame on the closing swing. But as I stepped into the huge lobby area dotted with benches where people could lace up their rental skates when the facility was open to the public, I was home. Straight ahead there were wide plates of glass showing one of the two rinks—the more public-facing one—and to the right, a metal railing and ticket booth that separated the lobby from inner entrance to where we played and practiced.
The Rush logo was at center ice on this rink.
Bleachers filled one side of the arena, and boards with ads from businesses that no longer existed, topped with flexible and clear Plexiglass surrounded our playing surface. Banners from past titles the team had won hung above the rink and a large scoreboard took up most of the far wall, another Rush logo emblazoned above the home team’s section.
Behind the teams’ benches were two doors that looked innocuous but had keycard readers on them.
Our entrance to the locker rooms from the rink—one for the Rush, one for whoever we were playing, and never the two shall meet. That was how shit-talking escalated to drama to fighting actually breaking out, and that shit should stay on the ice.
No point in wasting punch-throwing where coaches and teammates couldn’t see it.
Fighting had a place in hockey—to send a message, to ramp up a team’s energy when we weren’t playing to our potential, to protect a player who was being targeted. Of course, there were other reasons too, but those were the biggies.
Putting aside fisticuffs and how to prevent them, there were similar keycard readers at the separate team entrances on the outside of the building, so I could have gone that way.
But I’d needed to see…this.
To see if it felt the same.
Newsflash…it didn’t.
Mostly because the rink was empty of employees and the public. Even when we were on the ice practicing, there were always people around. Some watching us, others not caring what we were up to—employees walking through and doing their business, kids coming for skating lessons and their own hockey practice or games.
The rink was its own universe, always teeming with activities and people, and…it was home.
But no one was coming to free skate a month after a fire ripped through their town or worrying about winning their rec game or whether the blades on their rental skates were sharp.
Westill had practice, though.
Two and a half months off, and now it was time to get back to it.
The grind. The late nights and sore body. My lungs burning, feeling like they were going to explode. My legs throbbing, threatening to give out from all the conditioning it took to get ready for the season.
Weights and studying plays and systems. Working my ass off trying to get noticed.
And maybe making it to The Show for a game or two.
Then back down to the minors, back to this small arena and spending time on the bus, driving hours and hours for a tour of other small arenas. Playing for hundreds to thousands of fans instead oftwentythousand.
Somany rungs up the ladder of my dream.
So close to the final one.
Just…not all the way there—at least not for me.
Axel had made it, though. He’d experienced his dream—mydream. And now he had a Cup to show for it. And a contract and alifeliving that dream.
If I wasn’t so happy for the bastard, I’d hate him.
As it was, I knew I was lucky I’d made it this far.
