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Exile tastes like protein shakes and the kind of silence that makes you question whether you still exist.

The Boston Blizzards training facility is state-of-the-art—all glass and steel and the subtle promise that redemption is possible if you’re willing to work for it.

I’ve been here three weeks now, skating through drills like a ghost, kept away from media and fans and anyone who might remember why Reed Hendrix is a liability instead of an asset.

“Looking good out there,” Coach Powell says after practice, which is what he says every day. Encouraging but noncommittal, like he’s coaching a promising junior player instead of a twenty-eight-year-old whose career imploded on national television.

The trade was quiet—no press conference, no fanfare, just paperwork and the kind of handshake that says, “we’re giving you a chance, don’t fuck it up.” My new teammates treat me like expensive China—carefully, politely, with the constant awareness that I might shatter if handled wrong.

“Hendrix,” Assistant Coach Norton appears at my locker. “Got a minute?”

I follow him to the coaches’ office, mentally preparing for another lecture about keeping my head down and my mouth shut. Instead, he hands me a flyer.

“Community outreach program. Youth hockey league at the local rink. They need volunteer coaches.” He studies my reaction. “Might be good for you. Low profile. No cameras. Just kids who want to learn hockey.”

“You want me to coach little kids?”

“I want you to remember why you started playing. Before the contracts and media and...” He pauses. “Before everything else.”

The flyer shows gap-toothed kids in oversized gear, all grins and enthusiasm. Metro Youth Hockey - Where Champions Begin. Corny as hell, but something about their unguarded joy makes my chest tight.

“No publicity?”

“None. Just you, some kids, and hockey. Think you can handle that?”

Two days later, I’m standing in a rink that’s seen better decades, watching eight-year-olds attempt figure-eight drills with varying degrees of success. The ice is scarred, the boards are dented, and the whole place smells like old equipment and dreams deferred.

It’s perfect.

“Coach Reed!” Tommy, a kid who’s maybe four feet tall in skates, waves frantically from center ice. “Watch this!”

He attempts what might generously be called a spin move, loses his balance, and slides into the boards ass-first. Instead of crying, he pops up laughing like it was the most fun he’s ever had.

“Nice try, bud. Let’s work on keeping your weight centered.”

For the next hour, I teach kids how to stop without falling, how to pass without telegraphing, how to take a hit without losing the puck. Basic fundamentals I learned twenty years ago, now filtered through the patience I never knew I had.

“You’re good with them,” says Maria, the program coordinator, as we watch the kids scrimmage. “Some volunteers try to coach them like they’re professionals. You actually remember they’re children.”

“Children who want to have fun playing hockey,” I correct. “Win or lose doesn’t matter if they hate the game by ten.”

“Exactly.” She hands me a coffee that tastes like it was brewed sometime last week. “You thinking about coming back next week?”

“Yeah. If you’ll have me.”

“We’d love to have you. Fair warning though—word might get out eventually. You okay with that?”

I watch Tommy attempt another spin move with identical results but twice the enthusiasm. “As long as the kids don’t care who I used to be.”

Week three, and I’m starting to remember what normal feels like.

The kids know I played professional hockey, but to them, I’m just Coach Reed who brings extra tape and doesn’t yell when they miss the net.

They care more about whether I’ll help them work on slap shots than whether I once punched Stevens in a locker room.

“My dad says you played for the Outlaws,” Sophie mentions during a water break. She’s nine, missing two front teeth, and skates better than half the guys I used to play with.

“I did.”

“Were you good?”

“Some days.”

“What happened? Why aren’t you there anymore?”

The question every adult wants to ask but doesn’t. Trust a kid to cut straight to the bone.

“I made some mistakes. Had to start over somewhere new.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. But starting over means getting to meet you guys, so maybe it’s not all bad.”

She considers this with nine-year-old wisdom. “My mom says mistakes are just practice for doing better next time.”

“Your mom sounds smart.”

“She is. She’s also single, if you’re interested.”

I nearly choke on my water. “Sophie—”

“What? You seem nice. She likes hockey. You both have all your teeth.” She shrugs like she’s solved world hunger. “Just saying.”

After practice, I stay late to help put away equipment, not ready to return to my empty apartment and the silence that follows me everywhere these days.

The rink at night has a different energy—peaceful, almost sacred, like a church for people who worship speed and precision instead of higher powers.

“Thanks for staying,” Maria says, locking up the equipment room. “The kids really responded to you tonight.”

“They’re good kids.”

“They are. And you’re good with them. Have you thought about getting back into coaching long-term? After hockey?”

After hockey. Like it’s already over instead of just beginning again.

“Not really. This is just... temporary. Until I figure out what’s next.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Well, temporary or not, you’re making a difference. Sophie’s been practicing those slap shots you showed her. Her mom says she talks about Coach Reed constantly.”

“Hope that’s not annoying.”

“Are you kidding? It’s the first time she’s been excited about anything since her dad moved out last year.” Maria’s expression softens. “Sometimes people need someone to believe in them. Kids especially.”

I drive home thinking about belief and second chances and kids who think mistakes are just practice. In my apartment—sterile corporate housing that feels like an expensive hotel—I make dinner I barely taste and scroll through hockey news I’m not mentioned in.

It’s better this way. Quiet. Controlled. No scandals, no headlines, no photographers lurking outside rinks hoping to catch me in another meltdown.

It’s also slowly killing what’s left of my soul.

Thursday afternoon, I’m sitting in Dr. Walsh’s office for my weekly session—voluntary this time, not court-mandated. She’s older, calmer, less likely to challenge me than Chelsea ever was. Which makes these sessions feel like therapy instead of warfare.

“How are the kids?” she asks, settling into her chair with the kind of patience that costs two hundred dollars an hour.

“Good. Really good. Tommy finally made it through practice without falling. Sophie’s developing a wicked slap shot.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Like maybe I’m good for something other than checking people into boards.”

“You’ve always been good for more than that.”

“Have I? Because my track record suggests otherwise.”

“Your track record suggests you’re human. Flawed, like everyone else, but capable of growth.” She makes a note. “Tell me about the moments when you feel most like yourself.”

“On the ice with the kids. Teaching them fundamentals. Watching them get excited about small improvements.” I pause. “It’s pure. No politics, no media, no expectations beyond having fun and getting better.”

“What about before? In Chicago? Were there moments like that?”

The question I’ve been avoiding for months. Because the answer involves saying her name out loud, acknowledging that the best parts of who I was happened when Chelsea was around.

“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “There were moments.”

“Can you tell me about them?”

“I was mentoring a rookie. Kid named Dez. Struggling with confidence, second-guessing every move. I worked with him early mornings, taught him to trust his instincts instead of overthinking everything.”

“That sounds meaningful.”

“It was. He became a different player. More confident, more creative. Less afraid of making mistakes.”

“What changed? Why did those moments stop?”

I know the answer. Have known it for months but haven’t been able to say it out loud. Because saying it makes it real, makes it something I have to deal with instead of just survive.

“I started therapy,” I say finally. “With the team psychologist. Dr. Chelsea Clark.”

Her name hangs in the air like confession. The first time I’ve said it out loud since Chicago, since everything fell apart.

“And how did that affect your work with Dez?”

“Made me better. Not just as a mentor, but as a person. She helped me understand my anger, my patterns, why I always chose violence over vulnerability.” I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “I was becoming someone I actually liked. Someone worth being around.”

“What happened to that person?”

“I fell in love with my therapist.”

The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, like admitting I have brown hair or skate left-handed. But saying them feels like bleeding.

“And that changed things?”

“It destroyed things. Her career, my career, the team chemistry. Everything I touched turned to shit because I couldn’t separate what I wanted from what was professional.”

“Do you regret it?”

The question I ask myself every morning. Every night. Every moment in between when I’m not actively distracting myself with hockey or kids or anything that doesn’t involve thinking about Chelsea’s hands in my hair, her laugh against my neck, the way she looked at me like I was worth saving.

“I regret how it ended,” I say carefully. “I regret the cost. For her especially.”

“But not the feelings themselves?”

“No. Not the feelings.”

Dr. Walsh makes another note, expression neutral. “It sounds like you’re grieving.”

“Grieving?” I snicker.

“For whom you were becoming with her. For the relationship you couldn’t have. For the version of your life that might have been possible if circumstances were different.”

Grieving. Perfect word for this hollow ache in my chest, this constant sense that something essential is missing.

“How do you grieve something that was never supposed to exist in the first place?”

“The same way you grieve anything else. You feel it, you process it, and eventually, you find a way to carry it that doesn’t destroy you.”

After the session, I sit in my car in the parking lot, thinking about grief and growth and kids who think mistakes are practice. My phone buzzes—text from Sophie’s mom, thanking me for helping her daughter love hockey again.

Ms. Peterson: Sophie won’t stop talking about practice. You’ve given her confidence I haven’t seen in months. Thank you.

I stare at the message, remembering what Maria said about people needing someone to believe in them. Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe being good for these kids, being part of their joy and growth, is worth more than whatever I lost in Chicago.

Maybe healing happens one practice at a time, one kid at a time, one moment of pure hockey joy at a time.

My reflection in the rearview mirror shows someone I’m starting to recognize again—tired but not broken, scarred but not bitter.

Someone who might be worth believing in.

Even if Chelsea never sees it.