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Blaze

“Get your shit together, Blaze!”

The arena lights are too bright.

My vision blurs, and the ice feels like it’s shifting beneath my skates, the weight of the helmet pressing down on me, but I can’t stop now. The crowd’s roars are like a relentless wave, pounding in my ears, feeding my already erratic pulse. I can hear the announcer’s voice over the speakers, but the words don’t register. My head’s a mess, and I know damn well why.

I shouldn’t be here.

But that twisted, stubborn part of me insists I can handle it.

The puck drops, and the chaos begins. I’m sluggish, a half-second too late on every play. My teammates yell instructions, but they sound like they’re speaking underwater. My stick barely connects with the puck before it’s stripped away, and the next thing I know, I’m hurtling toward the boards.

Hard.

My shoulder slams into the glass, and I stumble, struggling to stay upright. The opposing player skates off with the puck, and the crowd erupts. For them, it’s just another game. For me, it’s a slow-motion train wreck.

Then comes the first penalty. A slash. Stupid, obvious, and completely avoidable if I’d been paying attention. I don’t even argue with the ref; I just skate to the box, my chest heaving as I sit down. The penalty box feels like a jail cell tonight, and I’m its most deserving inmate.

By the time I’m back on the ice, my frustration is boiling over. The next guy who brushes me gets an elbow to the ribs, and the ref doesn’t miss it. Another penalty. After two consecutive penalties, he may bench or eject me for repeated infractions, but I don’t care. The boos start to rain down, but it’s the disapproving glares from my teammates that hit harder.

“Get your head in the game, bro ,” one of them snaps as I skate off.

It’s Jackson, our team captain and resident straight arrow. His glare cuts through the haze, but instead of sobering me up, it just pisses me off.

“Mind your own business,” I snarl, shoving past him.

My vision’s narrowing now, and the whiskey I chugged in the locker room before the game feels like it’s turning to acid in my veins.

I charge forward, vision narrowing to red-hot focus. The other team is a blur of motion, but so are my own teammates. My limbs keep moving a second too slow, my thoughts a second too fast. I miss a pass, then another. My jaw clenches, anger coiling tighter and tighter.

“Quit fucking all up, Ice!” my teammate Chase yells, skating past.

I snap. The anger, the booze, the frustration — it all detonates. I lunge, shoving him hard. His skates skid, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“The hell’s your problem?” he shouts, pushing back.

“ You’re my problem!” My voice comes out rough, feral. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. My fist swings before I can think, knuckles cracking against his jaw. He hits the ice, and the refs descend, whistles screaming in my ears.

They drag me to the penalty box, the crowd’s jeers blending into a wall of noise. My vision tunnels, my pulse pounding. I slam my gloves down, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

That’s when I hear it—the voice of some jackass fan in the stands. He’s leaning over the railing, yelling something about how I’m a disgrace, how I’ve ruined the Denver Destroyers. “Go away, you drunk loser!”

I snap again.

Before I know it, I’m climbing over the boards, lunging for the guy. Security swarms, the crowd gasps, and chaos erupts.

The last thing I remember is being dragged off the ice, the bitter taste of adrenaline and shame mingling with the liquor still lingering on my tongue.

***

The weight of that night crashes over me, and I blink back to the present.

The ranch house is still there, solid and unmoving. But my fists are clenched, my breathing shallow.

I close my eyes for a second and exhale slowly. That was months ago. The regular season is over. The Destroyers didn’t even make the playoffs.

I’m supposed to be past that now. I’m here to rebuild. To help with the festival. To keep laying low until the suspension lifts and I can get back on the ice.

I’m not that guy anymore.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

I force the memory to fade. My family comes into focus, solid and real. I exhale slowly, trying to shake the tightness in my chest.

The tires of my Porsche 911 crunch over the gravel road, the familiar dust cloud billowing in my rearview mirror. It’s already coating the sleek black paint, and I know it’ll be a nightmare to clean. Another reason to leave it parked in one of the ranch’s garages and switch to the old truck I keep here. The truck’s more practical for ranch life anyway—and less likely to draw comments from Dad.

Cedar Creek sprawls ahead of me — fields of green, the white fences of the Ice Ranch stretching toward the horizon. The sight used to mean freedom, a place where I could outrun my demons. Now it feels like a reminder of how far I’ve fallen.

I pull into the long driveway. The sprawling fields stretch out on either side, dotted with cattle and lined with the familiar wooden fences I could navigate blindfolded.

I lower the window, letting in the crisp, clean air. No city smog, no stadium lights, no roaring fans. Just the sound of cicadas and the faint hum of the ranch.

As the house comes into view, my stomach tightens. The big wraparound porch, the worn rocking chairs, the flower beds my dad still insists on maintaining... It’s all painfully nostalgic, and I hate how much I miss it.

I cut the engine, silence settling over me like a weight I can’t shake. For a second, I just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles going white. The air outside is clear, fresh — a hell of a lot cleaner than the toxic mess I left behind in Denver.

My suspension. The DUI. Rehab. The headlines plastered with my face, my name dragged through the mud. Blaze Ice: From NHL Star to Total Trainwreck.

I slam the door harder than I need to, the sound echoing through the quiet morning. The ranch house stands in front of me, the porch as weathered and steady as ever. Nothing’s changed here. But I have.

I shoulder my duffel bag and head toward the front door. Each step feels like I’m walking through wet cement, my past clinging to me with every move. I’m here to lie low, to help with the damn festival, and to convince everyone — maybe even myself — that I’m not the disaster they saw on TV.

Rehab forced me to face my shit. The booze. The anger. The fact that I lash out when I feel cornered. But facing it doesn’t mean I’ve escaped it.

The door swings open before I can reach for the handle. My sister Emma stands there, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face. Her eyes — that unmistakable Ice family blue — glint with mischief. It’s a shade so vivid, so unique, that people always say you can tell someone’s an Ice just by their eyes.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal son,” she calls, her hands on her hips. She’s wearing jeans and a flannel, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. “Come back to bless us with your presence, have you?”

“Don’t get used to it, kid. I’m here to recharge, not settle down and milk cows.”

“You look like crap, by the way.”

“Missed you too,” I shoot back, ruffling her hair. She swats my hand away with a grin.

“Took you long enough,” she says. “Were you sitting out there giving yourself a pep talk?”

I snort, the corner of my mouth lifting despite myself. “Maybe I just couldn’t handle the thought of seeing your face again.”

She rolls her eyes but pulls me into a quick hug. The tension in my chest eases, just a little. The Ice Ranch might feel like a prison, but Emma? She’s still the bratty kid sister I left behind.

“Dad’s out with the horses,” she says, stepping back. “Luke’s inside. Try not to corrupt him.”

I step over the threshold, the scent of wood, leather, and coffee wrapping around me. It’s too damn familiar, too damn comforting. My nephew, Luke, bolts through the living room, his giggles piercing the fog in my brain. I scoop him up, his tiny arms locking around my neck.

“Uncle Blaze!” he squeals. “You’re back!”

His joy slices through the darkness in my head, a reminder of why I came back. I press a kiss to his temple, the knot in my gut loosening.

“Yeah, kiddo,” I murmur. “I’m back.”

For better or worse.

I pull back, taking a good look at him. “You’ve grown so much since I last saw you. How old are you now, twenty?”

Luke bursts into a fit of giggles, shaking his head wildly. “I’m almost five, silly! That’s this.” He holds up four fingers, his brow furrowing as he struggles to maneuver his thumb into position to make five.

I chuckle, ruffling his hair. “Almost five, huh? Guess that makes me ancient.”

“What’s anzient?”

“Your twenty plus eight more. You know what that is?”

“Twenty million and six billion!”

I laugh, shaking my head. “It sure feels like it.”

Luke giggles. “I missed you, Uncle Blaze.”

“I missed you too, buddy,” I murmur. Funny how four little words from a kid can feel like a lifeline.

“ You think I’m old now, wait until you’re as big as me.”

“Will I be this big when I’m twenty million and six billion?”

“If you keep eating your vegetables, maybe,” I tease, tapping his nose.

“Yuck! Veggies are gross!” he declares, sticking out his tongue.

I laugh, my chest feeling lighter than it has in months. For a moment, it’s just me and my nephew, the weight of the world melting away.

“You’ll thank me later, kiddo. Now, what’ve you been up to while I’ve been gone?”

Luke’s face lights up as he launches into an excited rundown of his recent adventures: building a “super tall” Lego tower—he stretches his arms as high as they’ll go—winning a ‘real race’ against his dad, and helping his mom bake cookies.

I listen, nodding along as his words tumble out in that unstoppable way only a four-year-old can manage, my heart catching on how easily his joy cuts through the darkness that’s been weighing me down.

After Luke’s giggles fade and I’m left standing in the familiar quiet of the ranch house, a thought creeps in, uninvited.

Back when I had Delaney, I never felt this lonely. She was there—always there—like a constant, even if things weren’t perfect. I thought having someone was what kept me steady. Maybe that’s why I clung to her so hard, even when she started pulling away.

But now? Now, I don’t need anyone to define who I am. I’ve faced the worst of myself, and I’m still standing. I don’t need a woman in my life to fix me or fill some void.

For the first time, I’m figuring out how to be enough on my own.

I drop my duffel by the door, my jaw tight as I take in the familiar creak of the floorboards, the worn leather of the couch, the faint scent of saddle oil mixed with coffee. It’s like the house has frozen in time while I’ve been out there screwing up my life.

Inside, the mood shifts. Blake’s already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He’s my mirror image, right down to the way his jaw tightens when he’s pissed. I can sense the same confident, no-nonsense energy he’s always had, and I know the lecture is coming before he even opens his mouth.

“Blaze,” he says, his tone clipped. No “welcome home,” no small talk.

“Blake,” I reply, matching his tone.

Emma, noticing the tension, puts her hand on Luke’s shoulder.

“Hey, kiddo, let’s give your uncles a minute to catch up.”

Luke’s not happy about it. “Aw, man! I wanted to hang out with Uncle Blaze!”

“We’ll have plenty of time later, bud,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Emma leads Luke out. “Try not to kill each other in here. Just cleaned up the place.”

With that, they’re gone.

Let’s get this over with.

“You look like shit,” Blake says, crossing his arms.

“Good to see you too, Blake,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

His eyes narrow, zeroing in on my dark hair, now a mirror of his own. His lip curls. “What’s with ditching the blond streaks? Trying to lose the ‘rebel without a cause’ vibe? Or is this part of your new ‘I’ve got my life together’ act? Or maybe—you just want to look more like me.”

I grit my teeth. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” He snorts, shaking his head. “My problem is that you’ve been making headlines for all the wrong reasons. You’ve dragged the family name through the mud, Blaze. You think that doesn’t affect the rest of us?”

My fists clench, heat rising in my chest. “I know I screwed up, alright? I’m here, aren’t I? Trying to fix things.”

He steps closer, his eyes locked onto mine, the intensity almost suffocating. “You’re not fixing anything if you’re still wallowing in the same damn pity party. You’ve got a victim mindset, Blaze. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit harder than they should. I take a step back, my jaw tightening. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve spent months in rehab, facing all the ugly shit. I’m not the same guy I was during that game.”

Blake’s gaze flicks to the tattoo peeking out from the collar of my shirt—the phoenix rising from flames. He scoffs. “Nice ink. Too bad a tattoo doesn’t mean you’ve risen from anything.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I snap. “Mr. Perfect who made it to the Chicago Blizzards and feels he can squash me forever because I didn’t.”

His jaw twitches. “They picked me because I did the work, Blaze. I didn’t blow up my career and blame everyone else for it.”

I feel my pulse spike, anger bubbling under my skin. “I didn’t want to play for Chicago. I’m happy in Denver with the Destroyers.”

He laughs, the sound cold. “Happy? Yeah, you looked real happy sitting in the penalty box, wasted out of your mind.”

I take a step forward, my muscles coiled tight. For a second, it feels like we’re sixteen again, squaring off in the barn over some stupid fight. But this isn’t teenage rivalry anymore. This is my life, broken and barely pieced back together.

I force myself to take a breath, to unclench my fists. “I’m not doing this, Blake. Not now.”

His eyes search mine, and for a second, I see something crack in his tough exterior. Maybe it’s disappointment. Maybe it’s worry. I don’t know, and I don’t care to figure it out right now.

He steps back, his voice low. “Don’t just say you’re better, Blaze. Be better.”

The words hang in the air, suffocating. He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, fists trembling.

I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers snagging where the blond streaks used to be. Screw it. Blake’s wrong. Why would I fucking want to be more like him? Dr. Spock, with his logic, rigid rules, and no room for error—boring, perfect Blake.

Getting rid of the blond highlights may just be a symbol, but it’s more than that. No more alcohol, no more pretending, no more hiding who I really am. I’m not the same man. I care now—I care about my life, my future, my family, my teammates. I care, and I’m trying—no, I’m not trying. I’m doing it.

And I’m still standing. And for now, that’s going to have to be enough.

I clench my fists, but I don’t rise to the bait. Not completely. “You know what, Blake? Thanks for the pep talk. Really. Next time, try calling before I’ve already fixed my mess.” He snorts but doesn’t reply. Instead, he grabs a glass of water and leaves the room.

I can't wait to see how our next 'Twin Talk' ends.