Page 49

New beginnings smell like fresh tape and sound like twenty strangers sizing you up while pretending to lace their skates.

I walk into the Seattle Icehawks locker room for the first time as an official member of the team, taking in the gleaming facilities and pristine equipment stalls.

Everything’s state-of-the-art, designed to scream “we’re building something special here.

” The kind of place that makes you want to live up to the investment they’ve made in chrome and possibility.

“Hendrix, right?” A voice calls from across the room. I turn to see a guy about my age with the build of a defenseman and the easy confidence of someone who’s never doubted his place on a roster. “Brennan Parks. Heard you were coming.”

“That’s me. Thanks for the welcome.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you see how we practice.” But he’s grinning when he says it, the kind of chirp that says, ‘we’re teammates now’ instead of ‘prove you belong here.’

The rest of the introductions happen naturally—guys drifting over between getting dressed, casual conversation that feels more like curiosity than interrogation.

They know my history, obviously. You don’t trade for someone with my reputation without the whole room knowing exactly what baggage you’re bringing.

But nobody mentions Chicago. Nobody asks about the suspensions or the anger management or why a team would take a chance on someone who’s been more liability than asset for the past two years. They just treat me like the newest guy, which is exactly what I am.

“You been to Seattle before?” asks Turner, our goalie, pulling on pads.

“Nah. First time living anywhere that isn’t freezing six months of the year.”

“You’ll love it. Rain keeps things interesting, coffee’s better than anywhere else, and the women are—” He stops mid-sentence, glancing at Parks who’s shaking his head slightly. “What?”

“Dude’s got a girlfriend,” Turner says. “Dr. Clark. The one they hired for mental performance.”

“Oh shit, sorry man. Didn’t know you two were—”

“No worries,” I cut him off before this gets awkward. “And yeah, she’s incredible. Both personally and professionally.”

“Must be nice having someone who understands the game,” another voice adds. I look over to see a guy who’s probably six-foot-five and built like he enjoys hitting people for fun. “I’m Pocock. We’ve been needing someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who plays with an edge but isn’t stupid about it. Someone who can score but isn’t afraid to get dirty.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “We’re a young team. Need some guys who’ve been through shit and know how to handle it.”

The casual acceptance hits me harder than expected. Not because I needed their approval. I’ve never been the type to beg for acceptance, but because it feels genuine. Like they actually want me here instead of just tolerating the management decision to sign me.

“Alright, ladies,” Coach Watson’s voice cuts through the locker room chatter. “Ice time in five. Hendrix, you’re with Parks and Foster on the second line. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Practice is exactly what I hoped it would be.

Fast, physical, competitive without being hostile.

The kind of environment where you can push each other because everyone’s pushing toward the same goal.

My linemates are skilled, smart players who don’t need me to be something I’m not.

They just need me to be good at what I do.

Which, it turns out, I still am.

The puck feels right on my stick. My timing’s sharp. I’m hitting passes I haven’t made cleanly in months, finding space that seemed impossible in Boston’s more rigid system. It’s like remembering a language you thought you’d forgotten.

“Looking good out there,” Pocock says during a water break, breathing hard but grinning. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“Thanks. Feels good to be playing instead of thinking so much.”

“Yeah? What were you thinking about in Boston?”

“Everything except hockey.”

He nods like he understands exactly what I mean. “Fresh start’s a beautiful thing.”

After practice, I’m feeling better about this move than I have since the trade was announced.

The team chemistry is real, not just something management says to make everyone feel good.

These guys actually like playing together, and they’re making space for me to be part of that instead of treating me like a necessary evil.

I’m heading to my car when I spot Chelsea leaning against a sedan in the parking lot, looking like every fantasy I’ve had about successful women in business casual.

The sight of her stops me dead. Not because I’m surprised she’s here, but because seeing her in this context, at my new team’s facility, makes this feel real in a way it hasn’t yet.

“Hey,” I call as I approach. “Thought you were working late tonight.”

“I was. Then I got a better offer.” She pushes off the car, moving toward me with that particular walk that makes my brain forget how to form complete sentences. “How was the first practice?”

“Good. Really good. The guys are—” I stop, noticing she’s got that look. The one that usually means she’s got news I’m either going to love or hate. “What’s going on?”

“My father’s in town.”

“Shit.”

Chris Clark. The man who spent months treating me like a disease that infected his daughter, who made it clear that choosing me was the worst decision she’d ever made. Here. In Seattle. Where we’re supposed to be building something new.

“Chelsea—”

“He wants to have dinner. With both of us.” She reaches for my hand, fingers interlacing with mine. “Nothing formal. Just... dinner. He said he’d like to get to know you properly this time.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No. But I think it might be necessary.”

I study her face, looking for signs that this is her father’s idea instead of hers. But all I see is someone who’s ready to stop compartmentalizing the different parts of her life.

“Okay,” I say finally. “When and where?”

“Now. If you’re up for it. There’s a place downtown he likes. It’s quiet, no chance of running into hockey people.”

“I’m still in practice clothes.”

“You look good in practice clothes.”

“Chelsea, I smell like a locker room.”

“You smell like hockey. It’s not the worst thing.”

An hour later, I’m sitting across from Chris Clark in a restaurant that’s clearly chosen for privacy rather than atmosphere. Cloth napkins, low lighting, the kind of place where conversations can happen without being overheard or photographed.

He looks older than I remember, less intimidating outside the context of hockey arenas and professional authority. Just a man having dinner with his daughter and the guy she’s chosen to rebuild her life around.

“The team looks good,” he says, cutting into what’s probably the most expensive steak in Seattle. “Chemistry’s developing faster than anyone expected.”

“Yeah, they’re a good group. Smart players, good work ethic.”

“And you’re fitting in well?”

“Seems like it. Still early, but the system makes sense and my linemates are easy to play with.”

We talk hockey for twenty minutes—safe territory where we can find common ground without addressing the elephant at the table. Chelsea mostly listens, contributing observations about team dynamics and player psychology that remind me exactly why she’s so good at her job.

“I should use the restroom before we order dessert,” Chris says eventually, excusing himself with the kind of timing that suggests this isn’t entirely about biological necessity.

When he’s gone, Chelsea reaches across the table, fingers finding mine.

“He really likes you, you know,” she says quietly.

“He’s being polite.”

“He’s being genuine. Trust me, I know the difference.” She squeezes my hand. “You should see how he talks about you when you’re not around. He respects what you’ve done to get here.”

“And what have I done?”

“Grown up. Taken responsibility. Chosen to be better instead of just promising to be better.” She pauses. “He sees the same thing I see.”

“And what do you see?”

“I see the man I fell in love with in Vegas, except now he’s someone I can build a life with instead of just a memory I treasure.

I see someone who followed me across the country not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Someone who’s proving every day that love and ambition don’t have to be mutually exclusive. ”

Her father returns before I can respond, settling back into his chair with the satisfied expression of someone who’s given two people the space they needed for an important conversation.

“So,” he says, looking directly at me, “Chelsea tells me you’re thinking about making Seattle permanent.”

“Yes, sir. Assuming the team wants to keep me around.”

“They will. You’re exactly what they need—skill with an edge, experience with hunger.” He pauses, something shifting in his expression. “And you make my daughter happy. That matters more than hockey.”

The confession hangs in the air, loaded with everything we haven’t said about Chicago and choices and the way people can change when they’re given the chance.

“She makes me happy too,” I tell him. “Makes me want to be worthy of that happiness.”

“Good. That’s what love should do—make you want to be better, not make you settle for less.”

After dinner, we walk to the parking garage in comfortable silence. Chris hugs Chelsea goodbye—real affection, not obligation—and shakes my hand with the kind of firmness that suggests approval rather than politeness.

“Take care of each other,” he says before getting into his rental car.

“We will,” Chelsea promises.

When he’s gone, we stand there in the concrete echo of an underground garage, processing what just happened. A year ago, this dinner would have been impossible. Six months ago, it would have been a disaster. Tonight, it felt like family.

“That went well,” I say finally.

“Better than well. That was him giving us his blessing.”

“Did we need his blessing?”

“I did. Not because I can’t make my own choices, but because having his support means I don’t have to choose between loving you and loving my family.”

I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her in a way that probably violates several public decency laws but feels too necessary to care about consequences.

“Chelsea,” I say into her hair, “I’m not going back to an empty apartment tonight.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t want to spend another night away from you. Don’t want to keep pretending we’re taking this slow when we both know exactly what we want.”

She pulls back to look at me, eyes bright with something that looks like relief and possibility and the particular joy that comes from finally admitting what you’ve been thinking.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying let’s stop pretending geography and separate leases make sense when we’d rather wake up next to each other every morning.”

“You want to move in together?”

“I want to build something real with you. Starting tonight.”

She rises up on her toes and kisses me right there in the parking garage, tasting like wine and promise and the particular sweetness of choosing someone completely.

“Your place or mine?” she asks when we break apart.

“Ours,” I say. “Let’s go to ours.”