Post Olympic

Morning Skate

I have to say, this chapter's theme is a little odd, and I thought a long time about music, but oh hell to that. Let me live / let me die - - Des Rocs

-rabid

******************

"GAME DAY GAME DAY GAME DAY GAME DAY!" It's Sauerkraut. He's up way too early. "Nico get up, morning skate is soon."

"Fifteen more minutes." I yell through the apartment.

"Dude, it's ten." He knocks on my door. "They actually sent me up here to get you."

"It's ten?"

"Puck drop is at three." He calls.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nobody woke you up because you needed the sleep, but now it's time to go," I get up out of bed and wander over to the door.

I haven't worked with the guys in their gear yet, so it takes me by surprise to see Sauerkraut standing at my door with his black practice jersey on over his gear. He's leaning forward on a stick that has Von Albrecht written up by the tape. He's got a weird knot on top of his stick and I take a second to stare at it.

"You tape your stick weird." I yawn.

"I've taped it like this since forever." He laughs.

"Give me five minutes, Sauerkraut." I reach up and grab his cage, shaking his head, then disappearing back into my apartment. He starts to whistle a game show theme and I get changed, brush my teeth, and grab my skates.

"Hey, are you ever going to call me Fenrir, or am I going to wait around forever for it." He calls through the door. I pull it open, holding my skates.

"Nah." I sigh. "Figure the nicknames discourage your guys' egos."

"Oh, nice." He responds. I nod, and we make our way down to the rink.

This is going to be my first time in skates in two and a half years. I'm not going to know what to do or how to do it.

What if I forgot how?

I shake my head, I couldn't have forgotten how to skate, that's not possible I don't think. My hands start to sweat, and I look down at Sauerkraut's feet in his skates, he can skate. Can I? I'm sweaty all over and he glances at me.

"You okay?" He asks. I shake it off.

"Fine." I mumble.

"I'm serious," He responds.

"You worry too much about me." I try to laugh off the panic in my bones, but he isn't catching on.

"Well, yeah," He says.

"I'll be on the ice in a second." I push open the rink door.

"Sleeping beauty got out of bed!" It's Ireland. If there's anything I don't want him to see, it's me forgetting how to skate. But I sit down and lace up anyway, pulling each worn string and standing up. I'm wobbly at first, but I walk over to the rink door, grabbing my stick from the side and sucking in a deep breath. I skate out onto the ice, and instantly I know. I remember.

This is what home feels like.

My edges in the ice.

The sound they make as I carve a corner.

This is my home.

I speed up and take a warm up lap, pushing my limits and stretching my boundaries. This is what I live for. I turn my one warm up lap to two, flipping backwards and driving as hard as I can. Admittedly it isn't as good as I was when I was in the olympics, but I'll take it. I'll take anything. I pick up a puck on my way toward a net, flicking it through my legs and around all sides. This is my hockey. This is where past connects to present to future, this is my silence and my music. This is my light and my dark, my in and out. Without it, I realize how lost I got. I flick the puck as hard as I can toward the net, bar down.

My edges growl to a stop and I'm standing in front of the boys. A couple of them raise their eyebrows under their cages. Sauerkraut lets out a cheer.

"That's ms olympics." He laughs. I roll my eyes.

"Alright boys, six hours to puck drop, and I want to see a crisp and clean warm up right now." I pull a puck from Ireland and zing it toward the net. "Get going."