Page 3

CHAPTER 3

DIXON

I like jokes. I like it when something makes me laugh. My teammates? Hilarious. Nan? Hits about fifty-fifty, but the effort’s there. Even irony gets me sometimes. Like now, for example, because nothing says ‘cosmic joke’ like Elle Carter showing up in River City at my rink, in my town, looking like a headline I forgot I was still starring in.

Elle is as gorgeous as she was the last time I saw her, which wasn’t my finest moment. Pretty sure I managed to hurl an insult her way in the hallway at a press conference, but we don’t need to talk about that right now. Not when my ego’s just been sent back to the bench for the season.

The guys are all banging sticks on the ice like they’re still kids on a pond, not professionals on AHL ice. There’s a taste of something bitter on the tip of my tongue––I’d half-hoped the team would give her a bit less of a welcome. More grunts or something. It’s a warm welcome, I guess, but she won’t get one from me.

I want to watch her with the same detached interest I’d give to a game I’m not playing in. Except it’s not detached. Not even close. My jaw aches because I’ve been clenching it for the better part of five minutes, and my stomach feels like it’s full of lead.

Elle has always had this presence, a gift really. It’s a way of commanding attention even when she’s trying not to. She had it as a player, a glimmer of something more that made her an addiction to watch. Now, she’s got the suit, the stance, and that sharp gaze sweeping over the team like she’s already figuring out what’s wrong with us. Because that’s what she does: she fixes things. Fixes teams. Fixes players.

Only, she didn’t fix me when she had the chance. No. She most certainly did not.

Her eyes slide past me, quick and practiced, like she’s avoiding an old bruise she knows will hurt to look at. But I’m not letting her off that easy. My glove tightens on my stick. If she’s going to stand there and act like we’re just two people who happened to end up in the same rink, she’s got another thing coming.

Taking me up on my silent challenge, her eyes snap back to me as her chin lifts higher, her expression smooth as glass.

“Hi, Dixon,” she says, ice blue eyes meeting mine again, and for a split second, it’s us. Me and Elle, staring at one another as if we’re both waiting for the other to stick their tongue out or give the other a jump scare. I’m not sure how long we stay suspended in this moment before someone nudges in to shake her hand and say hello.

I take that as my sign. I’m gone, heading for the tunnel without another word.

The locker room is quiet, the hum of the rink muted behind closed doors. I sit down on the bench, elbows on my knees, trying to shake the knot tightening in my chest. It doesn’t work.

A few minutes later, the door swings open and Campbell walks in, his stick still in hand. He looks at me, then at the empty room, and sighs. “What’s going on, Dixon?”

“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. I want to shout that I’ve just seen the ghost of ice hockey past, but I don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve got something to say.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I stare at the floor, the scuffed rubber mats under my skates. Finally, I shake my head. “I kind of have a history with Elle.”

“Yeah. And?”

I glance up, frustrated by his calm. “It’s a complicated history.”

Campbell nods, like that’s exactly what he expected. “Complicated doesn’t mean impossible, Dixon. It means you’ve got some work to do.”

He’s not getting it. Campbell is our best left wing, with insight that will make him one heck of a coach one day and probably put him in the Hall of Fame. But today he’s a bit dense. “Remember when we met, when I came to the Renegades?”

Campbell’s thoughtful as he looks my way. I can tell he’s casting his mind back to what I like to think was a fateful invitation at just the right time a few years ago. At least for me it was.

“I remember Ben telling us you were available. He didn’t want to lose a chance to get you on the team.” He threads his arms tightly in front of his chest. “But, wasn’t there some background noise with a newspaper article?”

“Kind of.” My shoulders slump. “It was a magazine article. A feature. I was booked to be on the cover of Frozen Edge Weekly. I did the photo shoot and then set up a time to be interviewed a few weeks later, mostly because we couldn’t do it all at one time since I was playing on the road a lot then.”

The ways of the NHL side of things: if you’re a rookie, a lot of times you end up doing the away games more. The reason my coach wanted me out there so much was so he could play me and see where I fit in, and there were fewer distractions when we were away from home. Plus for us new guys on the team, it’s a good way to get used to the routine of things. In the AHL, we have fewer games and there are more budget constraints, too. On this side, it’s about developing skills in case we’re called up but having enough ‘awesome’ in us to put on a good show for our home team fans.

“This sounds familiar,” Campbell says as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “That article came out and it wasn’t?—”

I stop him before he has to say it. “Good? No. No, it wasn’t. It went in hard on imposter syndrome and how it affects players at a high level of play. Like an NHL player who is in his second year and doing really well. Let’s say that player ends up at a skills camp with the best of the best in the world. At said camp, they confide in someone that they have started to second-guess themselves. Struggling with mental health. Fighting their own version of the yips.”

Campbell lets out a long, slow breath of air. “Are you saying you confided in Elle and she told someone?”

When he says it, it’s like I’m reliving the hurt all over again. Totally evidenced by the sucker punch that’s delivered to my gut for the second time today.

“I’ve only told one person, ever, where my head was during that time. No one knew I was in therapy or that I was considering medication. No one.” I drag my eyes to meet Campbell’s and push my hair off my eyes. “I shared that with her. I trusted her, but somehow, it was used against me.”

“Did you ever talk about it?”

I shrug. “I tried. I asked her if she did it, and she denied telling anyone. And that’s where I left it.”

“What?” Campbell’s eyes almost fly off his face. If they had springs attached, I’m sure they’d be dangling on the floor by now. “You didn’t push her for answers? You’re always like a dog with a bone when you want something.”

“It all happened so fast. We were still at the camp when the article came out, and the day we were leaving I wanted to talk to her more about it. I was on my way to her hotel room when my coach called and said I needed to get back as soon as yesterday because ‘we’re meeting with the owners and your agent this week to discuss your contract.’ That’s when I knew in my gut, and my heart, that my days were numbered.”

“You never had a chance to clear the air?”

“I did run into her one other time, which didn’t go well.”

“It must have been due to your winning personality. I bet you led with compliments and cupcakes.”

The version that I hold in my memory banks of my attempts to talk to Elle for sure doesn’t have cupcakes, nor are there any compliments.

“No, I’m pretty sure I was still angry. I saw her at a press event during preseason as she was leaving and I was walking in.”

“And?” Campbell asks.

“There was an exchange. I said some things, it didn’t go well, and she was whisked away. When I tried to talk to her again, I sent a text asking if we could talk and promising I’d be sane. But she ghosted me.”

We’re both silent as I let the story land with Campbell. Me? I’ve spent a couple of years with it, it’s part of me. It’s one reason trust for me is hard to come by. I feel like having her here, there is a reason…but what? Does the Universe want me to be tortured? Maybe I’m supposed to work things out or grow or something. I don’t know, I just want to go out on the ice and block some pucks.

When I look at Campbell, he’s still standing there, watching me with that same measured expression he always wears when we’re on the ice and in the heat of the moment. But before he can respond, Trevor barrels into the room, looking winded, with Ben hot on his heels.

“There’s been an accident in the parking lot,” Trevor says, his breath coming out in puffs. “Ice patch. Someone slid into another car.”

Campbell straightens immediately. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” Ben says, shaking his head. “But that’s the second time in two weeks. We’ve gotta do something about the ice before it gets worse. It’s winter, we need a solution before the outcome isn’t so good.”

Ben then grabs his coat off the nearby hook. “I need to get out there. Trevor, come with me. Campbell, can you let the team know I’ll be back soon?”

Ben and Trevor exit as quickly as they’d appeared, their urgency hanging in the air. Campbell’s already moving toward the door when he stops and glances back at me. “We’re not done here, Dixon.”

I lift a hand in acknowledgment, but don’t say anything. Campbell disappears into the hallway, leaving me alone in the silence and staring at the scuffed rubber mat under my skates. The hum of the rink filters in through the walls, a reminder of everything I can’t seem to escape. My thoughts circle back to Elle, to her sharp eyes cutting through the team earlier, to the way her chin lifted when she saw me watching.

I can’t shake the feeling that whatever broke between us back then hasn’t healed for either of us. Maybe Campbell’s right. Complicated doesn’t mean impossible.

I drag a hand down my face, staring at the wall of lockers like it might hold some kind of answer.

It doesn’t.

Pushing to my feet, I pivot and head back out to the rink. There’s an ache in my knee that flares when I stand, remnants of an old injury, but I ignore it. Pain is just another part of the game, right? I’ll have plenty of time to overthink the whole situation later, right now I have Coach Mitch waiting for me.

The walk to the ice feels longer than usual, the sharp chill hitting me the moment I step through the doors to the rink. Mitch is already out there, standing by my net with his whistle around his neck and a puck in his hand. His eyes snap to me the second my blades hit the ice.

“About time, Dixon,” he calls, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “You gonna skate, or are you just here to look pretty?”

I force a smirk. “Can’t I do both?”

“Sure can, just do something before my wife gives birth,” he says as he cracks a smile.

“How is she doing?” Mitch’s wife hasn’t been having the easiest time with her pregnancy. “She’s due soon?”

“One month,” he says as he tosses a puck in the air. “We’re so not ready for this.”

“No one ever is,” I agree. “Judging by how you handle coaching, you’re going to be a great dad.”

“Fingers are crossed.” He goes to toss the puck but stops. “Oh, forgot to tell you that we’ll have a back-up goalie coach coming who is going to fill in for me until I’m back, so you won’t miss a beat.”

There’s a feeling of anxiety that dissapates when he says this, and the tension in my shoulders that I wasn’t aware I was carrying eases. With Elle being the defensive coach and Mitch possibly taking off soon, the last thing I need is to suddenly have Elle as my coach, telling me what to do, everyday. Even in a temporary role, it would be no good. For anyone.

“Thanks Mitch,” I say as he flicks the puck down the ice to the goal, and I chase after it, the familiar rhythm of my skates cutting into the ice drowning out the noise in my head. I am grateful because Mitch is my coach. Not her.

I circle back, stopping near the blue line, breath fogging in the cold. Mitch waits with another puck, holding it in the air for me to see like he invented it.

“You’re reading the play better,” he says, flicking the puck toward me with a practiced nudge. “A month ago, you would've chased that angle and left the net wide open.”

“Growth,” I say, tapping my stick on the ice with a grin. “Next thing you know, I’ll be coaching you .”

“Oh, please,” he snorts. “I’ll retire first.”

I’m about to reset when a shout slices through the air. We both turn as a rink attendant jogs onto the ice, waving a phone like it’s on fire. “Your wife’s on the line, Mitch. Says it’s important.”

Mitch straightens up immediatly, humor draining from his face like someone flipped a switch.

“Tell her I’m coming,” he says tersely, already skating off. No hesitation. No follow-up. I watch the door swing shut behind him, his helmet still under his arm, steam rising off his shoulders.

He’s gone, and the stillness that follows buzzes louder than any whistle.

Something’s off. I can feel it.