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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

JESSIE

I ’ve stepped out onto the ice more times than I can count.

To be honest, at this point, I’m not sure which my body feels more at ease with—the ice or a regular walking surface.

Graham Jenkins picked me up as a young kid and gave me a chance to play the game I loved. But it was my papa who first introduced me to the ice, taking me to the local rink one Saturday morning.

Despite being a huge fan, he never got a chance to go to a Destroyers game because he didn’t have the money for tickets. When they got first pick and drafted me, that was my only wish at the time. I wished he’d still been here to see me sign the contract he had been convinced I’d secure one day.

Dad always said he was a dreamer, a factory worker with visions of grandeur that did no one any good. Before I was earning big money and lining his pockets, he said I’d be better off ditching hockey and living in the real world. People like us didn’t make a name for ourselves.

Papa died when I was ten, but he did get to see me enter Graham’s program, and I’ll never forget his face when I told him Graham had contacted my school, asking about me.

That was the thing about my papa and the reason why he bucked the trend when it came to my family. His tears of joy weren’t for anyone but me. He knew I was destined for greatness, and he told me that every damn day.

He also told me the second I played for the headlines, the fame, the money, or for anyone else, then it was over.

I had to play for me.

Every game was just like in the little leagues.

Every time I laced up my skates, it was to pursue my dreams and no one else’s.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my papa’s voice. Initially, I thought it was because my love for the game had disappeared, and I was left doing exactly what he’d pleaded with me never to do—to play for someone or something other than me.

But now, I know my love for hockey never disappeared; it was just buried beneath the weight of trauma, unrecognizable as I searched for self-validation and a reason to feel worthy. I was trying to score goals for all the wrong reasons.

When my first blade hits the fresh ice before I kit up for regular morning practice, the feeling I get is anything but normal.

Finally, I can hear myself. I can hear my skates as they cut through the ice.

I feel lighter—and not just because I’ve gone weeks without touching a drop of alcohol.

For the first time since I can remember, I’m doing this for myself. For the love of the game. I can hear my papa because he isn’t being drowned out by the goddamn bullshit noise in my head.

The ice is empty since I got here before my teammates.

When Mia asked me why I was leaving so soon, I told her I needed to get ahead of the others and be alone with the ice for a while. She didn’t question it; she just smiled and kissed me goodbye.

Without giving it much thought, I head over and pick up a stack of red cones set out on the side, ready for practice.

Skating around the ice, I arrange them in the formation I know Coach Burrows has planned. Red cones are reserved only for sprint and agility tests.

I wait for the fear of failure to take hold and tell me I can’t do this. I wait for the excuses to come barreling toward me as I finish laying them out along the ice.

Except I don’t feel any of those things when I pull up at the center line and close my eyes. When I draw in a deep breath, all I can smell is the freezing ice beneath me. All I can feel is my heart as it beats in a regular pattern. All I can hear are my own welcome thoughts. And all I can see is Mia as she lay beneath me this morning, her cheeks matching the color of her rosy lips as I pushed inside her and took us both to the brink of ecstasy.

When I hit the first corner, I don’t overthink or analyze my weight distribution. I’m on autopilot, my body powered by my unhindered mind.

The freezing air whips past my face as I take the second corner.

It’s this part right here, halfway around, when I usually slow up. The adrenaline working against me as I convince myself there’s no way I made the time. I don’t deserve to make a good time.

But my brain doesn’t even go there.

Because this lap is for me .

As I cross the line and hit the brakes, I throw my head back and stare at the bright lights overhead, my hands propped on my hips as I take in oxygen.

“Fuck, that one was fast,” I whisper into the silent arena.

“I’d say your fastest yet, kid.”

My head follows the sound of the voice until I land on Graham, sitting on the away team bench.

I don’t say anything, unsure if this entire thing is just a hallucination. I approach him and lean my forearms over the boards.

With his face hidden underneath an orange-and-black Destroyers cap, he holds the stopwatch in his left hand. The time reading thirteen seconds flat.

He still hasn’t looked up at me, continuing to stare down at the watch.

“There wouldn’t be a roof left on this arena if you’d just pulled that off in the All-Star game.”

I rest my elbows on top of the boards and pull down on my black beanie.

That’s when he looks at me. I’d say properly looks at me for the first time in years.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He wipes a hand over his mouth and nods across to the other side of the rink. I turn around and see Coach Burrows standing at the entrance to the ice, watching us, his hands in the pockets of his pants.

“I wanted to speak to you alone. Mia told me you’d be here, and Mike let me in. I’ve been sitting here for at least five minutes.” Reaching into his pocket, he takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the time displayed on the retro stopwatch. “Don’t ask me why I still carry this around with me when I could just use my phone.” He shrugs. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“You came here to talk to me?”

He nods once, rising from the bench. “Always liked this rink. It was one of the few away games I enjoyed. Being away from my family was hard, but coming here was somehow—I dunno—comforting.”

I don’t say anything as I watch him take in his surroundings.

“You were right, Jessie. I did fail you.”

I drop my gaze toward the ice. That morning in the Destroyers boardroom crashes forward from where I buried it deep in my brain.

“You …” I begin but then stop. Unable to lie and tell him he didn’t.

“I should’ve asked myself more questions about your state of mind and living arrangements. I should’ve asked myself why you needed more support when your papa passed away. I should’ve concentrated more on what was behind the boy standing in front of me and not the player I desperately wanted to see.”

Noise filters in from behind us, and Graham’s eyes flick toward where my teammates’ voices come from.

“I can’t turn back the clock and protect you from what he did and what you went through. Neither can I offer you the family and safety you needed back then. It’s too late for that.”

He holds out the stopwatch, the time still written across the small screen. “If one of my players recorded a time like that, I’d tell them their future in this game was fucking bright, provided they could keep their head in it.”

Taking the watch from him, I don’t move my eyes from his.

“I think it’s going to take a while for my daughter to forgive me for the way I treated you.” He huffs out a laugh. “She’s turned into one hell of a woman.”

“I love her.”

“I know. I know,” he breathes out. “And I don’t know if you’ll ever find it in yourself to forgive me for what I said, what I did …”

The moment I open my mouth, he holds up a hand, asking me to let him finish.

So, I do.

“I want you to know that I see it now. My daughter’s future. I thought I did, and I thought I had it all laid out for her. I thought what I had planned for her was what she wanted, what she needed. I couldn’t have been any more off track. What she wants is you.”

The stopwatch in my hand blurs, and I quickly swipe the wetness away.

“Your dad is a piece of shit who deserves to do time for what he did to you and your mom. I can’t change my past failings, but I can tell you that if, one day, you can find it in yourself to forgive me, then I’d love to be back in your life for all the right reasons.”

Words stick in my throat as I roll my lips together, and he claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it in his palm.

“At the risk of this sounding condescending, I’m so fucking proud of you, Jessie, and I want to offer you whatever help you need to process and deal with what you’ve been through. Even if it’s just an ear.” He looks over my shoulder as my teammates take the ice behind me. “Something tells me you’ve got plenty of those though.”

Tipping my head over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Jensen leaning against the boards on the other side of the ice, watching us intensely as he takes a drink from his bottle.

“I do,” I say, turning back to Graham. “But I could always use one more.”

Something like relief crosses his face. “You’ve been through a lot.”

I pocket the watch in my sweatpants and tap my knuckles on the boards. “There’s this form of therapy I’ve been offered a few times. It’s a lot, and takes it out of people as they revisit some of the worst moments in their past. I’ll be the first to admit it scares the shit out of me. But this time, I want to do it. I don’t want to go for hockey or my career. I want to go for me …” I pause and take a deep breath. “I want Mia to be my wife and give her more than just tomorrow or next fucking week. To do that, I think I need to take my psych’s recommendation. I know the trauma will be there forever, and I’ll never be able to turn back the clock for my mom. But I want to try to be everything your daughter deserves.”

He shakes his head. “You already are that, Jessie.”

“I want to get to a point where I’m waiting for our children to be born, not for the next chance to open a bottle. Instead of drowning my emotions, I want to embrace them. Good and bad.”

I reach out my hand, and he takes it in his and then wraps his other palm around it.

“I get it, Jessie. I get it.”

I stare into his green eyes, and for the first time since his wife died, I see the warmth of his daughter in them.

“Here’s the thing, Graham. When I promise Mia forever, I want to fucking mean it.”