Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Colton: Skates and Scars

T he sun hadn’t cleared the rooftops yet, but I was already wide awake, sitting at the counter in joggers and a T-shirt, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee I wasn’t drinking. No music. No TV. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling.

Riley’s words kept circling my head. Now I need to figure out my next move.

Focus on yourself first.

I stood up, stretching my back until something cracked. The kitchen looked the same way I felt—functional, but not exactly alive. I opened the dishwasher, loaded last night’s plate, a couple of forks, a glass, and hit start. It wasn’t much, but it beat staring at the mug.

I'd been ignoring a stack of boxes in the corner since the day I moved in. I walked over and pulled one open—random stuff from my last place. Wires, gloves, and some old team gear. At the bottom, under a tangle of lanyards and receipts, I found a photo in a beat-up black frame.

My dad and I, right after my first NHL goal. I had the puck in one hand, helmet still on. He had his arm around my shoulder, looking proud and about ten years younger.

I turned it over in my hands, thumb brushing over the corner. Then I set it on the counter.

Didn’t mean I had answers yet.

But at least I knew what the goal was.

I grabbed the overflowing laundry basket by the door and carried it to the washer. It had been sitting there long enough to become part of the furniture.

As I stuffed in clothes, I muttered, "Pretty sure I’ve been wearing the same three shirts since preseason."

Halfway through, I found a hoodie with Timberline dog hair all over it. I shook my head and smirked. Unofficial uniform.

I hit the start button, and the washer groaned to life. How many times had I used this since moving in? Two? Three? Small win.

Back in the kitchen, I cracked a few eggs into a bowl and grabbed a fork, just like he taught me. Not a whisk. "Use a fork, not a whisk—keeps the texture right." Dad's voice, clear as day.

I added pepper and a little milk and stirred it the way he always showed me. The pan hissed when the eggs hit it.

Leaning back against the counter, I let my eyes drift to the photo again.

He used to know just what to say—back when I was still willing to hear it.

***

I eased into the parking lot, tires crunching against the frost-dusted pavement.

The sky was caught in that in-between phase, shifting from gray to pale blue.

The building loomed ahead, dark except for the faint glow of the security lights.

The place was quiet. No teammates. No locker room chatter.

No music blaring from the locker room. Just the low hum of the refrigeration system under the ice.

Just me and the sound of skate blades scraping the rubber mats.

I stepped onto the ice. The first glide was sharp, effortless. It felt like exhaling.

I took a few laps, slow and even, my breath hanging like fog. No drills yet. Just movement. Just rhythm.

Then I got to work—tight turns, edge drills, corner pickups, quick-release shots from the dot. Reps on reps. Visualizing game setups. Imagining where the pressure would come from, where the puck would go next.

My shoulders started to loosen. My breathing found a rhythm.

I don’t know where this ends.

But I know who I don’t want to be.

Riley’s right. I fight for everyone else.

Time to fight for me.

I skated one last lap, then coasted to a stop at the boards. I leaned on my stick, breath visible in the cold.

Voices echoed in the tunnel—laughter, footsteps, the slap of sticks on concrete. The guys were here.

Usually, I lived for scrimmages. But today, I wanted drills. Reps. Clean mechanics.

I skated off, blades biting at the ice.

I grabbed my water bottle and took a long drink in the locker room. The chatter was picking up—guys trading stories, chirping each other, the usual.

I was retightening my laces when I heard it.

"Let’s see how long this lasts."

Grady’s voice was low, just loud enough to carry. No heat behind it, just doubt. He’d seen guys like me before and already decided how this would go.

Coop heard it too. I saw his shoulders stiffening before he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly like he was trying to diffuse the tension before it had a chance to boil over.

“Just let it go, man,” he muttered, voice low. “No need to get into it.”

I smirked, shoving my gloves on. “Don’t worry about me.” I stretched my arms overhead, rolling out my neck like I was gearing up for battle. “This is going to be fun.”

Coop narrowed his eyes, watching me carefully, then sighed. “Oh no. Why do I feel like I’m watching that Rambo movie—you know, the moment when Stallone gets that look in his eyes and you just know something big is about to go down?”

I grinned, yanking my helmet on and snapping the chin strap into place. “Because it’s about to.”

Coop let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Now I gotta watch this unfold.”

I stepped onto the ice, legs steady, focus locked in. The drills were about to start. Time to prove something.

The ice was fresh, the scrape of skates cutting sharp lines into the surface. My pulse had already settled into something steady, focused.

Overspeed drills came first. Easy.

I drove forward, legs pumping, cutting through the ice like a blade. Speed had always been second nature, muscle memory buried deep. But today, it wasn’t just about muscle memory—it was about sending a message.

I exploded off the line, my strides long and powerful. The drill was about control at full throttle. Each crossover was sharp, each pivot seamless.

My teammates were fast. I was faster. Forcing them to chase

Next, the Triangle Passing Drill. Here’s where I prove it’s not just about me.

I kept the puck moving, making every pass fast and clean. I did not hesitate, and I did not force plays—I just set up whoever needed it. A few guys noticed, but I was waiting for one reaction—Grady's.

I saw him watching now. Not commenting. Just watching.

The coach yelled out “Last drill. Backchecking.”

This was the one that would shut the conversation down.

The play unfolded fast, too fast for some. The puck moved ahead. I closed the gap hard, legs burning, cutting across the ice just enough to get into position. A half-second adjustment, then—stick on puck. Clean. No slashing, no desperation, just taking it back.

I swung the puck out to a teammate, then straightened up..

The ice was quiet for a beat.

Coop let out a low whistle. “Okay, new rule—someone piss him off before every drill.”

I yanked off my gloves, rolling out my shoulders. Grady didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I’d already made my point.

***

The drive home was quiet. No music. Just the wheels humming against the road and the faint rattle of my gear bag in the trunk.

Back inside, I tossed my keys in the bowl and walked toward the kitchen.

The photo was right where I’d left it—me and Dad, frozen in that post-goal moment.

I picked it up.

The kid in that photo? He knew where to go when he needed answers.

I set the frame down and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Then I tapped the contact.

Let’s see what happens.

The last conversation with my father had been clipped, surface-level. I hadn’t given him much reason to expect anything different this time.

Still, I hit dial.

The line rang twice before his voice came through, sharp but even. “Colton.”

I swallowed. “Hey, Dad. I—” My fingers curled against my knee. “I need to talk to you.”

A pause. “Alright.”

I breathed in. “I’ve been a jerk. I know that. I haven’t lived up to expectations, and for a long time, I didn’t care. But—I see things differently now.”

Silence.

I forced myself to continue. “I see how hard you’ve worked. How much weight you carry. I never really thought about that before.”

Another pause. Then, quieter, “That’s good to hear.”

I ran a hand through my hair, glancing at the ceiling like it had the right words.

“There’s something else. A journalist has been following me, looking for whatever headline she can twist. She baited me into talking about your land deal, and at first, I thought she tricked me—but she didn’t.

” My jaw clenched. “I was too stupid to see I was being set up.”

My father’s voice remained steady. “Why is the land deal making headlines?”

I exhaled. “It’s the rescue. A dog rescue is on the land. And they don’t have anywhere else to go.”

A beat of quiet.

“They?” he asked.

“The dogs. The people who run it. The volunteers. It’s—” I rubbed at my temple. “It’s part of why I’ve changed.”

I told him everything. About the rescue, about working there, about what it meant—not just to town, but to me. About how, for the first time, I wanted to be better, not just for hockey, but for me. My future. Myself.

And then, like pulling a splinter, I ripped out the truth about Vanessa.

“I’m tired of being a pawn in her game,” I said, dropping onto the couch. I’m tired of my words getting twisted to benefit her and no one else.”

Another silence. Then, carefully, my father said, “That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in a long time.”

The words had weight, but were fair.

He sighed, then in a softer voice. “I could’ve done better.”

It was a strange thing to hear. My father wasn’t the type to second-guess himself. Stranger still was the way I felt when I heard it.

Before I could process it, he continued. “Now that you’ve gotten your act together, Vanessa will have to work for her story. If she can’t pull it from you, she’ll invent one. That could make her more dangerous.”

It figured. Dad couldn’t let the moment sit too long before turning it into a warning. That was how he operated—always looking ahead and anticipating the next move.

But this time, I wasn’t bristling.

This was precisely what I needed.

Because I hadn’t even considered what Vanessa might do next.

I shut my eyes briefly, then opened them again. “I guess I’d be stupid to think she’ll let it go.”

“And you still think the rescue is worth sticking your neck out for?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

A pause. Then, quiet approval. “Alright.”

That was it. No grand declarations. No dramatic reconciliation.

It felt like enough.

***

I was halfway through putting yesterday’s laundry away. Funny some things never change. Laundry is still a pain. An alert buzzed my phone. New article from The Tribune . I tapped the screen and saw the headline.

EXCLUSIVE: NHL Legacy at Risk—Former Star Caught Between Father’s Land Deal and Local Shelter Drama

Vanessa didn’t get anything new. So she twisted the old stuff into something she probably thought was worse.

Vanessa thought she caught me off guard.

Too bad for her, I had a heads-up.