Page 241 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
Not wrong.
Just… heavier.
Like I’m stepping back into something that kept moving while I was gone, something that didn’t wait for me to catch up, something that expects me to slot back into place like nothing happened.
The arena is loud.
Too loud.
The kind of noise that used to light me up, that used to settle into my bones and make everything feel sharp and alive and easy, but tonight it hits me in waves, like I’m slightly out of sync with it, like my body remembers how to respond but my head is still somewhere else.
Still back in that apartment. Still with her.
I adjust my grip on my stick, rolling my shoulders as I glide into position, forcing myself to focus, to lock in, to do what I’ve done a thousand times before.
This is mine.
This is what I do.
The puck drops. Everything narrows instantly. Instinct takes over. Movement replaces thought.
I push off hard, cutting across the ice, reading the play before it fully forms, anticipating the pass before it leaves the blade. My body falls into rhythm before my mind catches up, muscle memory pulling me into place, into speed, into the game.
And for a few seconds, I forget.
Not completely. Not in a way that erases her.
But enough that something loosens in my chest, enough that the tight, constant tension I’ve been carrying eases just slightly.
I take the pass clean, pivot, drive forward. The defense closes in.
I slip past one, shoulder checking just enough to create space, pulling the puck across my body before snapping it toward the net.
The goalie blocks. Rebound kicks wide, and the crowd reacts, loud, immediate, alive.
I skate through it, breath steady, pulse elevated in a way that feels familiar again.
And that’s when it hits me. I still love this. Not in the same careless way I used to. Not in the way where it was everything, where it defined me, where it was the only thing I needed.
But it’s still there.
The pull.
The rhythm.
The satisfaction of moving with purpose, of knowing exactly where I fit in a moment, of being part of something bigger than just my own head.
Lia was right.
The thought lands quietly but firmly. She told me not to give this up. Told me not to throw away something I built because everything else feels too big right now.
And standing here, skating this ice, feeling my body respond the way it always has, I get it. I can have both. I can want this, and still want her more.
The period pushes on. The game stays tight.
Back and forth. Every goal matched. Every push answered.
I catch flashes of the crowd between shifts, flashes of signs held up against the glass, names scrawled in bold letters, bright colors catching the light.
