Page 107 of Big Stick Energy
But after three hours, it’s just ice. And I’m tired.
The official team training camp is part bonding experience, part fitness test. The roster has been winnowed once already, and now the coaches are focusing on compatibility—who plays well with whom. It’s a time to start thinking about maximizing performance, setting goals, dreaming big about the season ahead.
Right now, all I’m dreaming about is a shower and a nap.
“Heads up, Captain!” Weber calls, sending the puck my wayduring a passing drill. I trap it cleanly, pivot, and prepare to fire it back when I spot movement in my peripheral vision.
Darcy.
She’s walking into the rink looking breezy and professional in a gray skirt and heels, notebook in hand like always. Her red hair catches the arena lights as she scans the bench, probably looking for her boss.
She doesn’t even glance my way.
The puck gets stripped from my stick before I realize what’s happening. Calder, the rookie from development camp, celebrates like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“Holy shit!” he whoops, raising his stick. “I totally just deked the captain!”
“Don’t gloat, kid,” DeLuca calls from the net, pulling off his mask. “Looks like Cap’s got something on his mind.”
Dahlberg skates by, shaking his head. “Reminds me of last season when Merritt was all broken up over the skating coach. Same energy.”
“I’m not broken,” I protest, maybe a little too quickly. “I’m just…
bent a little.”
Calder attempts to look wise beyond his nineteen years. “Yo, Cap, that’s lowkey giving big sad energy. You need to touch grass about whatever’s got you pressed. That’s not very sigma of you.”
I stare at him. “Are you speaking English?”
DeLuca snorts. “There was some wisdom in there. I’m pretty sure. Touch grass, old man.”
The whistle blows for a water break, and I skate to the boards, my legs feeling heavier than they should. This camp is only five days, and I usually love it. But this year is different. Instead of feeling that new season energy, I feel kind of hollow. Even thenoise of the rink—the scrape of skates on ice, the thunk of pucks hitting sticks and boards—usually centers me. But today it’s just a soundtrack to the restlessness chewing at my insides.
I feel disconnected from everything. Like I’m sleepwalking through the motions of being the captain, being the leader everyone expects me to be.
At first, I thought it was just a temporary glitch. My focus was off in Colorado. I made some gains, but I had trouble concentrating. Then I came back to New York, and things only got worse.
The real problem is how much I miss Darcy. Not just the way she felt in my arms or the taste of her skin, though Christ knows I think about that more than I should.
But I really miss having someone to share the small moments with—like pointing out that Calder just used five different pieces of slang in one sentence or wondering aloud why the ice always smells different at Lake Placid.
Or—and here’s a wild idea—I miss someone in my life who didn’t only talk about hockey. I miss her thoughts on miniature food and how she made me laugh about my own neuroses.
For several precious days, I felt like I was part of something bigger than the careful performance of being Eric Tremaine. Now I’m back to being a population of one, and it’s lonelier than I remembered.
The whistle blows again, and I skate back to center ice and prepare for the face-off. But not before scanning the rink one more time for a flash of ginger hair.
But she’s gone.
On the last night at camp, I’m sprawled on my narrow dorm bed while Merritt and Zoe watch some rom-com on his laptop. They’re curled up together on his twin mattress, her head on his shoulder, sharing a bag of trail mix and whispering commentary about the movie.
“He’s totally going to mess this up,” Zoe murmurs, pointing at the screen.
“Nah, he’s got this,” Chase argues. “Look at his face. He knows what he wants.”
I am the world’s most pathetic third wheel.
Broody isn’t my style, though, so I leave them to their movie and head outside to the fire pit that sits between our two dorms. Weber is there, pacing back and forth, his phone pressed to his ear.
