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The arena’s cold in the late afternoon, the kind of cold that gets under your skin and sticks. My boots squeak on the rubber mats as I make my way past the darkened concession stand, past Virgil cursing at a loose bolt on Sleetwood Mac, and out into the gray parking lot. My breath clouds in the air. The only thing waiting for me is my truck, a dusting of snow on the hood and an empty passenger seat.

Joely’s message is gone.

For a second, I stand in front of the empty sign, glove pressed to the metal yards below where her crooked letters used to be. The cold stings my palm, and I let myself miss what it meant. Just for a second. Then I turn away, heading for my truck with a new ache in my chest.

Virgil fixed it. No more letters strung in blocky black letters. No more late-night declarations that made me feel like I was worth something more than a stat sheet. Now it’s back to the basics: “HOME GAME FRIDAY—SLAMMERS VS. BULLDOGS.” Just another lineup. Another night under the lights.

And that’s what I feel like—just another name on the roster. Something people watch because it’s tradition not because they actually believe I matter.

I drive around Sorrowville like the answers might be hiding in the snowbanks. Like clarity might be tucked between the antique shop and the bakery. But this town doesn’t hold answers. It holds memories—ones I’ve been dragging behind me like a bag of busted pucks.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s Madeline. I pull over to safety before I read her text.

Madeline:News crew wants a follow-up story. Mega Mites program. They want YOU. Big local feature. You in?

I stare at the message.

It’s like someone cracked open the door and left the light on. A way forward that feels like mine.

I tap out a quick reply:I’m in.

I text Joely next.

Me:You busy tonight?

Three dots.

Joely:Depends. Why?

Me:Thinking about pizza. Thinking about you. Thinking about both of those things happening at the same time.

Joely:Is this your idea of a date?

Me:Wouldn’t dare. I’ve seen you with garlic knots. I’m not that brave.

Joely:I could be talked into it.

I grin, for real this time. Not the fake, crowd-pleasing, team morale grin. The kind that shows up when everything makes sense for five minutes in a row.

My house is quiet by the time I get back. Bennett’s still there, stretched out across the couch like he owns the place, taping up his stick even though practice is long over. That’s Bennett—always doing something just for the sake of doing something.

“Thought you ghosted,” he says, without looking up.

“Nah. Just needed air.”

“Air, huh?” He rips a strip of tape, smooths it down, and finally lifts his head. “That what they’re calling existential dread these days?”

I chuckle, dragging my gear bag through the hallway and dropping onto the floor across from him. “You ever feel like you’ve been chasing someone else’s dream?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Usually when I’m dating women who shop exclusively at Lululemon and think hockey’s just ‘that game on ESPN.’”

I crack a smile, but it fades fast. “I’m serious. I don’t think I ever chose this. I think I just didn’t want to disappoint Dad. Or Mom. Or anyone.”

He watches me for a beat, then tosses the tape aside. “You know what I think?”

“Here we go.”

“I think you’ve been playing hockey like it’s a job interview, not a passion. Like you’re scared to lose something you don’t even want.”