Page 22

The Lewiston Forge rink looked smaller than I remembered.

Maybe it was me. Perhaps it was a dizzying year of NHL arenas and away-game adrenaline that had changed the scale of things. Or it was just that time has a funny way of shaving the sharp edges off memory.

I parked in my old spot—third row, two spaces from the light pole. It was the one Carver always teased me about, saying I was a creature of ritual. I wasn't. Not really. But this place? This town? Him?

Some rituals are worth keeping.

Inside, the arena smelled the same—rubber mats, stale popcorn, fresh-sharpened steel. My chest tightened as I stepped into the stands. On the ice below, a dozen kids in Forge practice jerseys flailed through a zone-entry drill, their limbs going in eight directions at once.

And at the center of it all—Carver.

He hadn't changed. Still wore that battered Forge jacket like armor. Still barked instructions like a drill sergeant one second and offered a high-five the next. One kid biffed hard into the boards, and Carver skated over, crouched down, and whispered something that made the boy grin through watery eyes.

I felt the now familiar tug in my chest again, sharper this time.

After the drill ended and the kids shuffled off the ice, Carver spotted me in the stands and lifted his chin. "You planning to lurk all night or gonna say hi like a civilized person?"

I grinned and headed down.

In Coach's office, we hugged and kissed, and he handed me a paper cup of cocoa without asking.

"You're coaching full-time now?"

"Mostly," he said, leaning back against the desk. "I consult with The Forge, and Coach lets me in this office as a perk. Mercier and TJ are the old men now. Can you believe it?"

I choked on a sip of cocoa. "TJ's an elder statesman?"

"He wears it like a crown. Mercier just sighs a lot and glares. It's leadership, Forge-style."

"And the kids?"

"Honestly, Pike, I love the kids. They listen to me."

We fell into an easy silence, the kind that only happens when distance hasn't done any damage.

Carver tossed a pair of skates onto the desk between us. "Lights are staying on for a bit. You game?"

The first glide onto the empty rink was a slide into memories. The ice whispered under our blades, and the boards echoed with the ghost of past games.

We didn't talk much. We didn't need to.

After a few laps, we coasted to center ice and leaned on our sticks like old-timers. Carver's breath came in slow, visible puffs.

"I put in for a trade," I said. "East Coast. Nothing is confirmed, but... it's in motion."

He didn't flinch. Only nodded once. "Good."

I raised a brow. "You're not surprised?"

"Well, I'm working us into my contract, too." He smiled. "One week a month off during the regular season. Travel if I want. They didn't even blink, but that's why I got the consultant label." He added, "I'm not doing another year of waiting by the phone for your voice at midnight for months on end."

"Carver—"

"I'm not saying it was all bad," he added quickly. "We made it work. But I don't want to survive us anymore. I want to live us."

I reached for his hand. "Me, too. I should have a few good years left in me with retirement in my 30s."

We ended up sitting cross-legged at center ice, sipping the last of the cocoa.

"Remember that dive motel in Manchester with the vibrating bed?" I asked.

He groaned. "Worst sleep of my life. Best morning, though."

We traded stories like cards—my first NHL goal, his first youth championship, the time I flew in just to watch him run drills in a snowstorm. He still had the puck I mailed him with "MISS THIS?" scrawled across it with a Sharpie.

"I kept it on my desk," he said. "Right under the roster. It's a reminder."

"Of what?"

"That the heart of my game isn't always on the ice."

We were quiet after that.

The scoreboard above us blinked once, then settled on HOME in bold red letters.

"You did that?"

He chuckled. "All for you. I love you."

"Whatever it takes. I love you, too."

Carver turned his palm up, and we laced our fingers together. He proclaimed, "We're doing this."