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PROLOGUE

JULIUS RAMON - ICE CLEANING MACHINE DRIVER

Ahh, there was nothing like a new season in the Wombats Arena. Something about cleaning the ice before that first game was like a rebirth. There’s the sharp scent of the ice itself, clean and slightly metallic, with a hint of fumes lingering from the resurfacing. The air is cool and dry, carrying the faintest whiff of rubber from the fresh game pucks.

But beneath that scent of new crispness is the earthier side of hockey—the unmistakable tang of sweat-soaked gear from the players getting ready in the locker room, the faint musk of damp gloves and pads that have seen one too many practices. There’s the subtle but ever-present scent of the boards, a mix of scuffed plastic, wood, and the faint traces of tape residue from sticks slammed against them in frustration or celebration.

If you’re near the benches, you might catch the sharp, minty smell of fresh stick wax, mingling with the salty, buttery aroma of popcorn drifting in from the concession stands.

It’s a heady blend—and one that feels like home to me: the perfect mix of ice, sweat, adrenaline, and anticipation. It’s the smell of hockey—the smell of my entire life.

And this season is a whole new world of opportunities for the Wombats. New faces, new challenges. But the men I’ve come to know bring a sense of powerful brotherhood into the rink every time they lace up their skates, and I think that’s what brings me back here, season after season. No, I don’t get to play anymore. And my nephew is no longer on the team…

But Wombats Arena is my home, and I have a feeling this season will bring just as many surprises as the last few…