Cole hadn’t intended to drive to the Barracuda Ice Center, but that’s where he ended up. Because the team’s morning skate was over, the ice wasn’t being used so he convinced the Barracuda equipment manager to lend him a stick and some pucks. His skates had been in the trunk. Not long ago he’d participated in the Barracuda Fantasy Camp weekend and he’d been too lazy to take his bag inside.

“I just want to fool around for a little while, remind myself what it was like.”

“Sure, sure, Ripper,” Jellinski said. “No problem. Skating lessons start at one, so the ice is yours until then.”

“I won’t be here that long, but thanks, Jelly.”

Soon after, he was standing center ice, a couple dozen pucks scattered at his feet. Stick in hand, he skated toward the other end of the rink, circled around and scooped up one of the pucks and guided it toward the net. Imagining a goalie crouched there, he aimed high and to the right, took a swing and heard a satisfying thwack a second later when the puck hit the net. Without stopping, he headed back for another puck and repeated the sequence. Even though he wasn’t dressed for this—he didn’t even have gloves on—it felt good to be here. He loved the transfer of energy from his stick to the puck and how it reverberated in his arms, how the crack split the air and echoed in the cavernous space. To him, there was an almost musical rhythm to this kind of drill and he immersed himself in it mindlessly. The mental cocoon was only temporary, but necessary. Every time he started to think about Fedora, uncomfortable emotions rushed to the surface and he had to fight them back.

After he’d shot about half the pucks, he finally felt ready to tackle the situation—that Fedora was done with Hat Trick.

Okay. That was so fucking shitty he could barely comprehend it. The thought of going in to work and not seeing her there, running the kitchen like a ballbusting general, producing mouth-watering food, making him laugh with her wry humor and teasing, pissed him the fuck off. But it also made his guts twist up.

It’s not personal, she’d said. It’s a business decision.

Well, it very well might be a business decision, but it felt like a lot more and he didn’t understand why she hadn’t told him about what was going on. Knowing she had kept all this a secret from him made him want to punch something. He fired a puck toward the net and missed, but it thwacked the boards hard.

Obviously Seattle had meant a lot more to him than it had to her. He’d really thought they were making some progress, relationship-wise. Sure, things were moving fast, but the speed didn’t negate the feelings. He could admit now that he’d fallen for her. Hell, he’d probably been in love with her for months now, but too blind to see it. Too blind to see her distancing herself from Hat Trick too.

God, he felt like an ass.

He stayed at the rink for an hour, until his hands started to ache from the cold. Just when he’d gathered the last of the pucks, he looked up and saw a little kid, about eight years old, his hands pressed to the glass.

He skated over.

“Are you a Barracuda?” the kid asked.

“I used to be,” Cole said.

“What’s your name?

“Ripley. Cole Ripley.”

“Ripper? Number 14?

“That’s me.”

“Wow! I know you. My brother’s always trying to rip one from the blue line like you used to do.”

“Good to know I haven’t been forgotten.”

“He tried to get people to call him Ripper too, but that didn’t work.”

“No one gets to pick his own nickname.”

“People call him Bugsy because of this time he was riding his bike and a bug flew in his mouth and he swallowed it.”

Cole laughed. “No wonder he wants a new nickname.”

“Tristan, come on. We’re leaving,” called a voice.

Cole looked and saw a hockey mom and what seemed to be Tristan’s brother Bugsy. Tristan waved at them vigorously.

“Mom! Drew! It’s Ripper. He’s right here!”

Cole pointed toward a place where there was no glass and they reconvened there. Drew the older brother looked to be on the edge of peeing his pants, he was so excited. Pictures were taken. Cole signed stuff for them and gave Drew some pointers on how to improve his slapshot. By the time he left the rink, he was in a considerably better mood. A hockey mood, actually. He decided on the spot to go to the game tonight. The ’Cudas were playing the Stars in the first game of the playoffs. He didn’t have a ticket, but as an alum, that was never a problem. He’d immerse himself in the world of his past since his present was in the crapper.