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I’d gotten into the hockey game late—growing up in California, it wasn’t as natural of a sport for a young kid as something like soccer. But a friend had brought me to a pro game, and I’d gotten interested. And after one match of some street hockey, I had gotten the bug.
Nothingfelt as good as getting the puck on my stick and firing it to a teammate. Nothing felt as good as stepping out onto the rink, the cold air on my skin, my skates crunching on the ice as I hauled ass into the defensive zone to protect my goalie and my teammates. Feeling free and powerful and—
Away from my sisters.
Who spent my childhood braiding my hair and painting my nails and generally trying to get me to cooperate with everything from Barbies to tea parties (but preferably Barbie tea parties).
I’d needed something that wasn’t pink.
So, I’d shot my hundred pucks, morning and night,everymorning and night, and I’d snuck out every bit of ice time I could manage—subbing and camps and skate and shoot—and eventually I’d graduated from in-house to travel hockey to juniors.
My sisters hadn’t graduated from trying to braid my hair and paint my nails, though.
Hell, the last time I went home, I’d ended up with something called a Brazilian treatment and my toenails painted in an ombre of sunset colors.
Once an older brother, always an older brother.
But they weren’t here now, and I’d seen them just a couple of weeks before—assuring them I was fine, that all was good, that I was still around for them to torture with blowouts and pedicures and holding purses while they shopped.
But…no one was here now.
I’d expected that, I supposed. I was early for practice—something I preferred, but I wasreallyearly today, having wanted to get a feel of what hockey would be like in River’s Bend now, to get reacquainted without an audience.
Moving, I bypassed the metal railings, pushed into the arena, and inhaled.
Always that first smell of cold air, the crispness hitting my nose and mouth and lungs. Tightening the skin on my cheeks, cooling the tips of my ears.
Sometimes I stopped and savored it, but today I kept moving.
It wastooquiet.
I punched in the code behind our bench, let myself into the back, and made my way down to the locker room. Empty with the lights off, but ready for us. Jerseys hanging, bags of equipment in front of our stalls.
We weren’t spoiled like the NHL guys and had to carry our own shit to and from the bus. But we did get alittlespoiled when we were at home.
Namely in the form of our gear magically appearing in the locker room.
My teammates hadn’t magically appeared though, and I found that, for once, I didn’t want to be first in the locker room, didn’t want to be alone in the space. So, I decided I wasn’t going to be. I walked out into the hall and then I didn’t stop walking.
Not until I’d made it to the fresh air.
No smoke.
Clean and quiet and…a conversation to my right—
No. Alecture.
“And that’s why do you don’t do that, BR,” a male voice was saying. “You need to learn to…”
I should turn and walk away, ignore the oppressive air inside and get ready for practice. Especially since cars were pulling into the lot and I wouldn’t be alone in there for much longer.
But…I was a nosy bastard.
And the lecture seemed to be gaining steam, not losing it.
I sidled around the corner, took in the two people talking (or one lecturing and one listening, her eyes downcast, her blond hair sleek and shining).
Not curled.
