Page 132 of Icebound

“You can’t retire because I love watching you play hockey,” she says into my chest. She fits so well there. “I don’t want you to give up your dream for me, so promise you won’t. Please? We can figure something else out together when I come back from Argentina. Don’t do this for me.”

I love her unwavering support, but this isn’t her decision. It’s mine, and no matter what, I know it’s the right one. “Okay, I promise I won’t retire for you.”

I’ll do it for me.

32

RHODE

“Why the hell did you make us drive to the middle of fucking nowhere to fish at a lake? You know what we should be doing right now? Watching film.” Cruz throws a line into the water, shifting on the pebbles. “I’ve never fished a day in my life.”

“That’s not all that surprising, considering you haven’t caught anything.” Patty squirts some lighter fluid on a log, looking more like a rugged cowboy than a winger in his Stetson and flannel.

Cruz reels in an empty line. “That’s because there aren’t any damn fish in this lake.”

Fireflies blink to life in the sunset, glowing around Patty as the campfire sparks. The May air is just cool enough for a fire. I zip up my Guardians windbreaker, inhaling the crisp mountain breeze as I sort through my jumbled thoughts like I’ve been doing all week.

I spent the afternoon mumbling to myself, trying to figure out what to say to Patty and Cruz, but there aren’t any words that feel sufficient.

Thank you. I love you. I’ll miss you.

None of them are enough. I wrote down a whole-ass speech and threw the napkin away.

Cruz tosses out another line. “So, why did you drag us out here, old man? Someone better be dying, dead, or proposing since it took over an hour to get here with traffic.”

“I wanted to talk to you both about something.”

I dig through my gym bag until I find the bottle of whiskey I packed. With a deep breath, I pull it out, holding the glass like it’s the Cup.

There are only two people I’d share this bottle with, and they’re the guys who’ve stayed late with me after every practice, picking up trash and wiping sweat off benches.

They eye the whiskey, mouths falling open as they register which bottle I’m holding. Cruz whips his head back and forth. “No. No fucking way. You’re not opening that bottle. Put it away.”

Reaching into my bag, I pull out the expensive Waterford glasses still in the original packaging. “Yeah, I am Cruz. This is the only bottle I’d break my sober streak for, and you know why.”

“Like hell you are,” Cruz shouts. A few birds scatter from the pine trees. “No, I’m not drinking that. We’re not opening that bottle, you know why? ‘Cause we promised each other that we’d only open the Hibiki Anniversary Edition if one of us were leaving or retiring from the League, and no one’s leaving, so put the Japanese whiskey away.”

He faces the lake, giving me the back of his sweatshirt with Cruz scrawled across the fabric. Patty stays silent, frowning at the bottle.

“Micah,” I whisper his name like that’ll soften the news. “We’re opening the bottle tonight.”

Cruz glances over his shoulder, brown eyes shining brighter than the whiskey. He starts blinking fast, then yanks his gaze away before throwing his fishing pole on the ground. “Fuck this. I’m leaving.”

Patty grips his shoulder, stopping him. “No, you’re staying. We’re all staying. Sit down.” He settles into the camp chair with a rigid jaw. “Alright, Tremblay. Talk. You dragged us all the way out to the woods, and I’m sure this couldn’t have been an easy choice.”

I sit in my chair. “That’s an understatement.”

This has been the hardest three weeks of my life. But no matter how difficult the day is, my midnights always end in Nina’s arms.

“Let’s hear it.” Patty twists open the whiskey, breaking the seal and sealing my fate. He pours each of us a glass. I bring the crystal to my lips, savoring the rich flavor.

After taking a few sips of liquid courage, I talk as the flames grow and the stars poke out in the sky, laying it all out.

I tell them about the countless late nights in Coach Watson's office, dissecting the terms of my contract. The meeting with our unflinching general manager as she expressed her appreciation for all the hard work I’ve put in over the years.

Every early morning with Camille, ironing out the details of my press announcement. I admit I’ve been seeing our sports therapist and by the time I finish talking, I’m two glasses in, and the buzz of the alcohol is warming my veins more than the fire.

With a deep breath, I say the words that have weighed heavy on my shoulders since the beginning of the season. “I’m not renewing my contract. I’m retiring from the League.”