1. Sean

1

Sean

Stepping out, the evening air hits just right, jazzing me up as I stride towards our date. The city's lighting up, streetlights flickering on, and the early nightlife's starting to buzz—just the backdrop for a night out.

Thought about snagging an Uber, but nah, tonight's got a different script. A walk feels right. I want the city under my steps, the cool Chicago breeze as my wingman, clearing the deck for what's shaping up to be an epic evening with Aubrey.

The city's usual landmarks look different at night, dressed in shadows and mystery, making the familiar streets feel like a different world.

After a few blocks, that pleasant buzz turns into a realization—I'm lost. The buildings loom taller and stranger, and the street signs are suddenly cryptic. It's surreal, like stepping into a parallel universe where everything is both known and unknowable.

Then, out of the silence, a deep voice cuts through the night, "Stop." The command is sharp, a full stop that freezes me in place. Before I can turn, I feel something hard press into my back. The cold touch of it, even through my jacket, is unmistakable.

Every muscle in my body tenses, and the night's pleasant buzz evaporates, replaced by a rush of adrenaline. My heart pounds in my chest, loud against the quiet of the night. In that moment, everything sharpens—the chill in the air, the distant hum of the city, the weight of the unseen threat behind me.

"Easy now," the voice says, a calm contrast to the chaos in my mind. It's clear I'm not just lost in the city; I've stumbled into a situation far more dangerous than a wrong turn.

The second that voice cuts through the night, my heart doesn't just skip—it soars. There's this rush, a kind of exhilaration you don't get anywhere else. Realizing I'm about to be robbed? That doesn't scare me; it electrifies me.

I toss back at the guy, half-annoyed, half-amused, "Really? You're gonna rob me? Buddy, all I've got is my phone. We're living in the digital age; catch up. You're picking the wrong guy to mess with."

His response? A coward's move, smacking me from behind. That whisper in the dark, telling me to shut it—oh, that just lights a fire under me. Fueled by a night's worth of drinks and a natural aversion to being anyone's victim, I whip around. My instincts kick in, fueled by anger and a bit of that liquid courage.

I swing, hard, hoping to connect with something solid. And oh, does it connect. He staggers back, swearing, and I can't help but feel a bit of pride amidst the chaos. That's the sound of someone who underestimated me.

Ready to finish what he started, I square up for another go. But then he lifts his gun. Time might as well have stopped right there. But I'm not about to show fear, not even as the barrel stares me down. Then, the gunshot rings out, loud enough to end it all.

Except it doesn't. It's just the alarm clock of my subconscious, yanking me back to reality. Heart racing, I sit up in my safe, familiar room.

Just a dream.

Snapping back to reality, I'm hit with the bitter truth behind the adrenaline-fueled dream. It's just another rerun of the night that changed everything, the night a bullet tore through my shoulder and my life as I knew it. The dream might be a distorted echo, but the outcome's the same—the end of my stint in the pros, courtesy of a robbery gone wrong.

I run a hand over the scar on my shoulder, a rough reminder of that pivotal moment. It's like my skin's own cruel memoir, and damn if it doesn't throb in tune with the memories whenever these dreams decide to play director in my sleep.

With a groan, I swing my legs out of bed, feeling the full weight of last night's decisions. My head's pounding, a relentless drumbeat that screams 'hangover.' Almost on autopilot, I reach for the bottle of whiskey sitting a little too conveniently by the bed. Liquid breakfast of champions, right?

I stagger over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment, the city sprawling out below like a kingdom waiting for its king to give a damn. The early light casts long shadows over the buildings, a stark contrast to the darkness still lingering in my thoughts.

Then, out of nowhere, a sound from the bed cuts through the haze of my self-pity. A soft, unmistakably feminine murmur. The covers shift, revealing... what exactly? I rack my brain, trying to piece together the fragments of last night, but it's like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Who did I bring home? The night's a blur of shots and shadowy figures , laughter and the kind of reckless abandon that only comes with trying to outrun your demons—or in my case, trying to drink them into oblivion. I squint over at the bed, hoping my memory's about to kick in because right now, I've got nothing. Just the echo of the gunshot from my dream and a mysterious guest sharing my sheets.

I take a swig from the bottle, letting the burn chase away the remnants of my dream, and pull back the sheets. There, like a scene straight out of a movie I don't remember casting, is a stunning woman. Her sleepy smile could knock a man off his feet, and it almost does me.

"Morning," she purrs, stretching languidly. "How's your day going?" Her eyes flick to the bottle of booze in my hand. “Ah, it’s that kind of day, I see.”

I'm floored. Not a single memory of how she ended up here flickers to life. "Uh, eventful," I manage, keeping my voice even, betraying none of my internal scramble to place her.

She sits up, the sheets pooling just so, offering a flirtatious grin. "Last night was fun, huh?"

If only I could remember. "Yeah, one for the books," I say, aiming for nonchalance while my mind races.

But her next move, a playful bite of her lip as she scoots closer, makes it clear she's interested in a repeat performance. And me? I'm not in the market for round two, especially one I can't recall round one of.

With every charm I've got, I steer the situation towards her exit. "You know, I've got this... thing today. Super early meeting," I lie smoothly, sidling over to fetch her clothes from the floor.

"Oh?" She sounds hopeful, maybe a tad too attached for a night I can't even recall. "Will I see you again, then?"

Navigating this kind of question requires a certain finesse—a blend of charm and evasion. "You never know what the future holds," I reply with a smile, handing her the rest of her clothes. But as I usher her towards the door, a slip of the tongue catches us both off guard. "It was nice meeting you, Aubrey."

Her brow furrows, confusion painting her features. "Aubrey? Who's Aubrey? My name's Jenna."

Crap. I wince internally, scrambling for damage control while keeping my face as neutral as possible. "Sorry, Jenna. My bad, must've still been half-asleep." It's a weak save, but it's all I've got.

With the Uber confirmation popping up on my phone, I show it to her, a part of me relieved for the distraction. As she steps out, the mix-up hangs in the air, an awkward reminder of just how out of it I really was last night.

Taking another pull from the bottle, the haze from last night starts to lift, piece by jagged piece.

Suddenly, I’m thinking back to last night in all its booze-muddled haze.

Me, and my buddies Chad and Jake were out on the town, doing what we do best—living large and leaving a wake of chaos behind us. It's like we're trying to paint the town red, one bar at a time.

Chad and Jake, they're a special breed. I've got this nagging feeling they're just riding the Sean Ice wave, soaking up the perks of being in the orbit of a once-upon-a-time NHL star. They're after the glory, the girls, and yeah, probably the free drinks. But hey, who am I to judge? We're all looking for a good time, and if my name gets us there, so be it.

Then, like a scene straight out of a movie you didn't know was still playing, my high-school fling Yasmine Walsh stepped into frame. She's all curves and confidence, a reminder of adolescent fantasies, now fleshed out in living color.

"Sean Ice, as I live and breathe," she purrs, sidling up to me with a grace that belies her intentions. "Never thought I'd see you in a dive like this."

I flash her a grin, the kind that's served me well both on and off the ice. "Yasmine, you're a sight for sore eyes. But let's be real, you knew exactly you'd run into me here. This town's not that big."

She laughs, a sound that's equal parts nostalgia and temptation. "Maybe I did. Or maybe I just hoped." Leaning in, her perfume a mingling of memories and desire, she lays her hand on my arm. "So, what's a star like you doing slumming it with the rest of us?"

Shrugging, I take a sip of my drink, the alcohol a welcome buffer between the past and present. "Just living, Yas. You know how it is."

Her eyes, lit with the same challenge as back in the day, narrow slightly. "I do. And I remember a time when you and I... we made quite the team." Her implication hangs between us, a thread I have no interest in pulling.

"Times change. And so do I." My response is light, but firm. The message, I hope, is clear.

Disappointment flickers in her eyes, but she masks it quickly with a smile. "Well, if you ever want to reminisce about the good old days, you know where to find me." With that, she slips a business card into my pocket and leaves, throwing one last smile over her shoulder.

As the evening turns into a sloppy montage, Jenna comes into focus. Jenna with her Instagram fame and a body that's a testament to her fitness model gigs. She knew me from my glory days on the ice, throwing around my NHL title like it was a golden ticket. Funny, considering those days feel like a lifetime ago.

Jenna, though, she was something else. A fresh face in a sea of familiarity. Sure, my head was swimming in a cocktail of shots and beer, but I remember her eagerness, the way she hung on every word as if my stories were her gospel. It's a trip, really, seeing how the shadows of my past life still have that kind of pull.

The night's a blur, but Jenna's part in it is clear as day—a reminder of the highs and lows of living in the fast lane, where the lines between genuine connections and just another night out get all too blurry.

In the midst of the blur, my phone buzzes—a sharp ping that cuts through the fog of alcohol and laughter.

The memories fade, and I’m back to the present, pounding hangover headache and all.

I pick up my phone to see it’s a text from my Pops, a man of few words but timely reminders.

Pops: Church starts in an hour. Don’t be late.

"Shit!" The word slips out, a stark contrast to the night's festivities. I'm many things, but a church-goer? That's never really been on my resume despite being a cradle Catholic. Yet, there's my dad, Jack Ice, as steadfast in his beliefs as he is in his routines, hitting up church every Sunday since Mom passed. It's been his rock, and somehow, he's convinced me to make it mine for the day.

He's still holding down the fort at the family ranch, an hour's drive north of the city's chaos. I can't help but think he's got this idea that a dose of Sunday service might set me straight, pull my life back from the brink of whatever edge he thinks I'm dancing on.

With time ticking down like the last seconds of a game on the line, I scramble to find something in my wardrobe that screams "respectable" more than "reprobate." Nice-ish clothes it is. I pull on a pair of slacks that have seen better days and a button-down that's more crinkled than crisp, but it'll have to do.

I'm out the door before I have the chance to second-guess this whole venture. As the city fades in my rearview mirror, replaced by the open road that leads home, I can't help but feel a twinge of... what? Nostalgia? Apprehension? Maybe a bit of both.

Pulling into the church parking lot, I barely manage to park before I'm hurrying inside, the solemnity of the building immediately washing over me.

I find my dad near the entrance, and the difference between us couldn't be more pronounced. There he stands, clean-cut, his Sunday best a sharp testament to the values he embodies. Me? I'm a disheveled reflection of the night before, barely held together by the semblance of decency my hastily chosen outfit provides.

"Hey, Dad," I say, giving my shirt one last hopeless pat down. "This place... does it stack up to the old church in Cedar Creek for you?"

He shoots me that look, the kind that's got years of my antics filed away behind it. "Sean, it's alright here. But, you know, nothing beats our church up north. It's got that... what do you call it? Community feel that you just don't find everywhere."

As we find our spot in the pews, the familiarity of the wood beneath us somehow eases the tension a bit. Then Dad leans in, his voice dropping a notch, "Listen, kid, I could use your help back at the ranch this week. Got some things that need sorting."

That knee-jerk reaction to push back against anything that smells like duty or expectation starts to rise up in me. But one look at him, at the quiet strength and the unspoken requests in his eyes, and it's like all my arguments lose their steam.

"Okay, Dad. I'll head back with you." It comes out more resigned than I intend, a concession to the unbreakable bonds of family and all the unspoken promises that come with it.

As the service begins, the words washing over the congregation, I can't help but feel the pull of home, of Cedar Creek, and the life I left behind. Agreeing to go back, even for just a week, feels like stepping into a past I've tried to outpace. Yet, as I steal a glance at my dad, I'm reminded that some ties aren't meant to be broken, no matter the distance I put between us.