Page 109
Story: Reach Around
By the time I walk into the rink, I’m already dragging. The arena’s freezing, the lights too bright, and the locker room feels like a pressure cooker set to boil. I go through the motions—pads, skates, jersey—but nothing fits right today.
We hit the ice. First drill? Miss a pass.
Second drill? Wipe out.
By the third screw-up, Duff’s had enough. “Foster. Bench.”
I glide off, eyes burning with frustration. Every part of me is wound so tight I could snap.
Behind me, Shep tries to joke. “At least you didn’t faceplant like Gage last week. Then his skates got tangled up in his own net.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I open my mouth right now, I’m going to lose it. I slump onto the bench, stick between my knees, helmet dangling from my glove.
This isn’t burnout. It’s something worse. It’s knowing deep down I might not even want to fight for it anymore.
For months now, the idea of life after hockey was just a distant blur—some foggy future where I’d coach little kids or run power play drills for the next generation, maybe crack a beer with the guys and tell war stories about the good old days. But I always pictured it way down the road, like something you plan for with half a heart, just to make your parents stop worrying. I never imagined it could sneak up on me this fast, or feel so damn close, or that I’d be the one considering letting go before the world ever made me. The thought guts me. It wasn’t supposed to benow.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I don’t even make it halfway to my locker before Boone steps into my path like a human roadblock with a buzzcut and a chip on his shoulder.
“You good?” he asks, but there’s no real curiosity in it. Just that older brother tone that says he already knows the answer and I’m about to hate it.
“I’m fine,” I say because that’s the knee-jerk response when you’re anything but.
Boone crosses his arms over his chest, his jersey damp with sweat, his jaw tight. “Bullshit.”
I sigh and try to sidestep. He steps with me.
“Dude. Not today.”
He leans in, voice low but razor sharp. “Every day has been ‘not today’ for you lately. We’re all watching you spiral and nobody knows if we’re supposed to throw you a rope or just let you crash.”
“Thanks for the team pep talk.”
“You think this is just about hockey?” Boone hisses. “You’re playing like you don’t give a shit, and it’s bleeding into everything. Practice. Games. The locker room. Joely.”
I freeze. “What about Joely?”
“She’s the only one bringing out anything close to fire in you, and even that’s coming out sideways. You act like she’s your everything, but you’re keeping her in the dark even after she fell and shattered her ankle for you.”
A few of the guys—Holden, Shep, Gage—gather around, silent but definitely listening.
“I’m not keeping her in the dark,” I mutter.
“Then why aren’t you shouting it from the rooftops?” Boone pushes. “Because from where I’m standing, she’s risking everything—her heart, her job, probably her second damn ankle—and you’re too wrapped up in whatever this is,” he gestures at my gear, “to see that she’s standing right in front of you, waiting.”
“Jesus, man, dial it back.”
“No. You dial it up.” Boone’s voice sharpens. “Hockey is mindset. Life is mindset. You’ve got all the tools, Brogan, but you’re playing like a guy who doesn’t know what the hell he wants. And at your age, it’s not a good look.”
I clench my fists. “Maybe I don’t know what I want.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Shep clears his throat. “Look, bro… we all love you. But we need the guy who throws hits and takes names. Not the dude moping through drills like he’s waiting for someone to save him.”
“Yeah,” Gage adds. “Even your secret admirer gave up. No signs lately.”
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