Page 3 of Puck Me Back to Life

I've learned to lower my standards.

By the time I finish showering and dressing, the sun is beginning to rise over the city. The skyline outside my apartment windows is painted in soft shades of orange and gold. It should be beautiful.

I stop at the convenience store a few blocks from the arena and grab my usual breakfast: a protein bar and an energy drink that looks radioactive enough to power a small country. The cashier recognizes me. Most people do.

For a moment, I brace myself for the look. The one where recognition turns into discomfort.

The one where people remember exactly who I am. Instead, the cashier simply rings up my purchase and wishes me a good day.

The interaction feels remarkable. Maybe this is a good sign. That everyone else is finally moving on.

The arena parking lot is already half full when I arrive. Players move through the entrance carrying equipment bags and coffees. Staff members rush between offices. Trainers are already setting up for the day.

Everything feels normal. The thought unsettles me. The world doesn't stop because you're falling apart. It expects you to clock in anyway.

I make my way toward the locker room and slide into my stall. The conversations around me are easy and familiar. Fantasy football, video games, plans after practice.

I keep to myself, nod along when someone tries to be polite and include me.

At some point, isolation became easier. People stopped knowing what to say to me after the accident.

Then I stopped giving them opportunities to try. The result is this strange middle ground where everyone is polite, but nobody is particularly close to me.

I work here. That's how it feels. Not like a family. Not like a team. Just work.

“Jesus Christ.” The voice comes from my left.

I glance over.

Hale is staring at the can in my hand with visible disgust. “You know those things probably cause cancer, right?”

I look down at the bright green energy drink.

Honestly, he's probably right.

The liquid inside glows with a suspicious level of enthusiasm.

“If they do,” I say, cracking it open, “it'll save me from having to drink a second one.”

A few players laugh.

I manage a smile. It feels rusty. The conversation moves on without me a few seconds later.

Nobody notices.

I take a long drink and let the caffeine burn its way down my throat. The truth is that I don't know how to be part of this anymore. Before William died, hockey was my favorite place in the world.

The rink was the one place where everything made sense.

You worked hard.

You played hard.

You won or you lost.

Simple.

Now hockey feels like something I endure. The game itself still makes sense.