Page 4 of The Man in the Cottage

I tried. I did everything I could think of—fixed the gutters, patched the roof, painted the cottage trim, cleared brush from the back of the property. Anything to earn my place here. And Mrs. Dawson let me, never making a big deal of it, just nodding when a job was done and occasionally leaving a plate of cookies on my porch.

I hope she told Kelly something. Left a note, maybe. Some explanation for why there's a strange man living on her property. Otherwise tomorrow's going to be an interesting conversation.

I don't sleep well.

That's nothing new. I haven't slept well since everything fell apart—since the cameras and the headlines and my agent's voice on the phone telling me to lay low for a while, let things blow over, as if what I did was the thing that just blows over.

I keep seeing that photographer's face. The way he smiled when he said what he said. The way my fist connected with his jaw before I'd even decided to throw the punch. The flash of his camera hitting the pavement, the crack of the lens, the look in his eyes shifting from smug to scared in half a second.

I'm not proud of it. I'm not sorry either. That's the part I can't explain to anyone, the part that makes me sound like exactly the person the headlines said I was.

NHL enforcer assaults photographer outside hospice facility.

They didn't print what he said to me. They didn't print that my grandmother was inside that building, dying, and he'd followed me there from the arena because he wanted a shot of me looking sad. They didn't print that he asked me how it felt to be losing my season and my grandma at the same time, if I thought God was punishing me for something.

They just printed the video. Me, grabbing him by the collar. Me, swinging. Me, standing over him while he bled on the sidewalk and screamed about lawsuits.

I settled out of court. The team suspended me indefinitely. My agent said it was the best outcome I could hope for, given the circumstances.

I drove south until I ran out of highway, and I ended up here.

I'm awake before the sun comes up, the way I always am. The rink doesn't open until seven, but I like to be there when they unlock the doors. First one on the ice, last one off. It's the only thing that still makes sense to me, the only place where my body knows what to do without my brain getting in the way.

I pull on sweats and a hoodie and lace up my boots, moving quiet out of habit even though there's no one to wake up. The main house is dark when I step outside, no lights in the windows, no movement. She's probably still asleep. City people sleep late, or at least that's what Mrs. Dawson always said. Kelly especially. "That girl works herself to the bone and then wonders why she's tired all the time."

I load my gear into the truck and sit there for a second with my hands on the wheel, looking at the house. I should introduce myself properly. Explain things. Tell her who I am before she googles me and finds out for herself.

But what would I even say? Hey, I'm Travis, I used to play hockey professionally until I beat up a photographer and became a cautionary tale. Your grandmother let me hide here because she was kind and I was desperate. Nice to meet you.

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway. The conversation can wait. Everything can wait.

The rink is a twenty-minute drive, a squat brick building on the edge of town that's seen better days. Longshore Ice Arena, according to the sign out front, though half the letters have burned out and no one's bothered to fix them. It's not much—one sheet of ice, ancient boards, a Zamboni that sounds like it's dying every time it runs. Nothing like the facilities I'm used to, the gleaming practice arenas with their perfect ice and their trainers and their cameras everywhere, always watching, always recording.

But the ice is good and the owner doesn't ask questions. He knows who I am. I saw the recognition in his eyes the first day I walked in, the slight pause before he shook my hand. But he just handed me a schedule and told me the morning sessions were usually empty if I wanted privacy.

I've been coming here every day for six months. Skating drills, shooting practice, the same routines I've been doing since I was fifteen years old. Some days there are kids here, youth league teams running plays while their coaches shout instructions. I stay out of their way and they stay out of mine. A few of the dads have recognized me—I've seen them whispering to each other, pulling out their phones, probably googling to make sure they're right. But no one's said anything. Small town courtesy, maybe. Or maybe they just don't care about hockey down here the way they do up north.

Either way, I'm grateful for it.

The suspension is supposed to end eventually. That's what my agent says, anyway, every time he calls to check in and I let it go to voicemail. The league is "reviewing the situation." The team is "evaluating their options." A lot of words that mean nothing, that translate to: we don't know what to do with you, so we're going to wait and see if everyone forgets.

I don't think they're going to forget. I wouldn't, if I were them.

I park in the empty lot and grab my bag from the back seat. The cold hits me when I step out, sharp and clean, the cold that wakes you up and makes you feel alive. I breathe it in and let it settle in my lungs.

Whatever happens with Kelly, whatever she decides, at least I have this. Two hours on the ice where I don't have to think about anything except the next drill, the next shot, the next lap around the rink. Two hours where I'm not the guy who threw his career away. I'm just a body in motion, doing the only thing it knows how to do.

I push through the doors and head for the locker room.

I get back to the cottage around ten, sweaty and sore and feeling more like myself than I have in days. The main house still looks quiet, but there's a light on in the kitchen now, and when I pull into my usual spot by the cottage, I see her.

She's on the back porch of the main house, sitting on the steps with a mug in her hands, watching me.

I kill the engine and sit there for a second, trying to decide what to do. I could wave and go inside. I could pretend I didn't see her. I could walk over and have the conversation I've been putting off since yesterday.

She makes the decision for me. She lifts her mug in a small wave, not quite a greeting but not unfriendly either. An acknowledgment. I'm here, you're here, we might as well deal with it.

I grab my gear bag and get out of the truck. She's still watching me as I walk toward the cottage, and I can feel her eyes on me the whole way. Assessing. Trying to figure me out.