Epilogue 1

Sean

I lean back in my chair, grinning as Blaze finishes his latest rant about refs making boneheaded calls in last night's game.

We're live on Puck Talk: The Ice Hour , our podcast-slash-weekly therapy session for hockey fans who, like us, need to vent about the league's latest mess-ups.

"So, just to be clear," I say, giving Blaze a smirk even though he can't see me through the screen, "you're saying that tripping call was justified?"

"Justified?" Blaze barks a laugh. "It was robbery, plain and simple. The dude barely skimmed the ice with his skate, and they sent him to the box for two minutes! I swear, these refs need a crash course in—"

"Tripping, according to Blaze Ice, is a myth," I interrupt, chuckling. "Listeners, take note: if you ever see Blaze trip a guy in a game, remember, it's just a 'skate skim,' nothing more."

Blaze mutters something unprintable, and I can practically hear his grin on the other side. "Oh, like you've never gotten away with a trip before, Sean. Remember that playoff game against the Bucks?"

I wag a finger at the camera. "Nope, nope, we do not speak of the Bucks game. That's a forbidden topic, and you know it." I check the clock, noticing it's nearly time for me to head out. "Alright, time to wrap this up, unless you want to come help wrangle some Mini-Mites with me."

Blaze laughs. "And get tackled by a bunch of four-year-olds learning to skate? Hard pass. Go knock 'em dead, Coach Ice."

"See ya, bro. Listeners, this has been Puck Talk: The Ice Hour . Catch you next week!" I click off, grinning as Blaze's face disappears from the screen.

Podcast done, I grab my bag, give the studio a quick scan, and head out to the truck. My shoulder twinges a reminder of this morning's physical therapy session. Six months of proper treatment, and while it'll never be NHL-ready, at least now I know how to handle it right. No more masking pain, no more pretending. Just honest work with people who actually want to help me heal.

Coach Ice, I think, rolling the title around in my mind as I hop into the driver’s seat. Never thought I’d be trading NHL ice time for bleachers and four-year-old skaters, but here I am—and somehow, it feels right. Funny how life can spin a guy’s world around, and you just gotta skate with it.

I pull up to the house, and there she is—Aubrey, out in the yard with Luke, who's practicing his "slapshot," which right now consists of whacking a tennis ball across the driveway. Aubrey's cheering him on, pretending to be the announcer, and I take a second to soak it all in. This is my life now. And, hell, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

"Hey, superstar!" I call out, making Luke's head whip around.

"Dad!" he shouts, dropping his stick and racing over. "Did you see my shot?"

"Best moves I've ever seen," I say, scooping him up for a hug. "Ready for Mini-Mites, buddy?"

He nods so hard he's practically vibrating. "Yep! Got my penguin helper and everything! Mom helped me."

Aubrey walks over, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek and a mock warning look. "The skating aid is in the bag, along with his helmet and pads. Don't let him think he's the next Wayne Gretzky just yet."

She's got this whole hockey mom thing down already, even though we're just at the learning-to-stand-on-ice stage.

"Are you kidding?" I say, grinning. "He's gonna be better than Gretzky."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, and for a second, we're both caught up in the moment. These little things, the everyday kind of moments… they feel almost bigger than any game I ever played. I'm still learning how to be this version of myself—a husband, a dad, a coach—and to my surprise, I like the guy I'm becoming.

"Alright, we're off," I say, pulling Luke toward the truck. "See you after practice?"

"Absolutely," she says, waving us off as we drive out of the ranch.

The drive to the rink is filled with Luke's chatter about penguins and ice and his friend Tommy who fell down three times last week but got right back up. Luke jabbers away about the "move" he's working on for tonight's practice, and I smile, just listening. His enthusiasm is like a shot of caffeine, reminding me of when I was his age, dreaming of slapshots and Stanley Cups. And now? Well, things are different.

The road stretches out before us, and my mind wanders, thinking back to that rough stretch right after the accident. Man, those were some dark days. I got hit hard, and I'm not just talking about the concussion or the busted shoulder. It was like my whole world shifted, and not in a way I could skate my way out of.

I'd always told myself I was fine, that the pain meds were just a temporary fix. But in the quiet moments, when the pills wore off, I could see the truth—I'd been teetering on the edge of something dangerous. It wasn't addiction, not really, but I'd been close. Too close.

Aubrey had seen it long before I had. She's got a radar for my bullshit like no one else, and she wasn't about to let me go down that road. She called me out, stood her ground even when I tried to brush it off. We argued—hell, did we argue.

It was the only time we’d ever really gone head-to-head about something serious, and it wasn’t pretty. But she stood by me, never backing down, and eventually, I saw it her way.

The real turning point came one night when Luke had a nightmare, and I found him curled up in Aubrey’s lap, asking her if Uncle Sean was okay. I’d never felt guilt hit that hard, like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just about me anymore. I had this kid looking up to me, counting on me to be around, and I realized I’d have to earn that trust every day. That’s when I knew I couldn’t keep pretending. I had to make a choice, for real.

Rehab helped. Not the formal kind—more like my own private boot camp. I tossed every bottle and temptation I had and told Aubrey she had full permission to lock me out of the house if she ever found more. She even kept me accountable, insisting on weekly check-ins like some sort of team meeting. And she was right there with me through it all, the hard days, the cravings, the late nights when I thought I'd go out of my mind. She was my rock, and we got through it together.

Eventually, I realized that just because I couldn’t play professionally anymore didn’t mean I was done with hockey. Coaching the little league kids was Aubrey’s idea, actually. She told me I needed something to focus on, a way to stay connected to the game. I’d rolled my eyes at first, but then I gave it a shot. And now? These kids might not be NHL prospects, but they play with the same fire, the same love for the game. They’ve given me back a piece of myself I thought I’d lost.

"Dad, are we there yet?" Luke pipes up, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Almost, bud. You got your helmet?"

"Yep! And my mouth guard, too!" he says, showing me the bright blue plastic like it's a trophy. "The other coach says I'm not allowed to lose any teeth yet."

I chuckle. "Smart man. Keep those teeth in your head as long as you can."

We pull up to the rink, and I park the truck, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "Ready to show 'em how it's done?"

He nods, his eyes shining with excitement, and I help him out of the truck, grabbing his gear bag from the back. Inside the rink, it's all hustle and bustle. Parents helping tiny skaters with helmets and pads, coaches setting up foam dividers to section off the ice, kids clutching their skating aids like lifelines. This is where it all starts—not with slapshots and checking, but with learning to trust the ice beneath your feet.

Kneeling down, I help Luke with his gear, making sure his helmet's snug and his skate laces are double-knotted. "Remember what we practiced?" I ask, adjusting his elbow pads.

"Marching feet!" he declares proudly. "Like a penguin!"

"That's right, buddy. And what do we do if we fall?"

"Get back up!" His grin is infectious, and I can't help but match it.

"That's right. Now, remember champ, keep your stick on the ice and your head up," I say, my voice soft but serious. "And don't forget to have fun, alright?"

He nods, looking up at me with this mix of admiration and pure joy that makes my heart swell. "I will, Dad."

I take a breath, letting that word settle. Dad. It's still a little new, but every time he says it, it feels like a win. Maybe not the kind with trophies and medals, but one that matters more.

When he's all suited up, he bounds off to join the other kids, glancing back at me with a grin before stepping onto the ice. I watch as he joins his teammates, skating with that awkward but fearless energy that only a four-year-old can pull off.

Out on the ice, Luke and his fellow Mini-Mites work on the basics—marching in place, small glides with their skating aids, getting comfortable with the feel of ice under their blades. Some parents watch nervously from the boards, but I've never felt more at peace.

These kids remind me why I fell in love with hockey in the first place. It wasn't about the glory or the contracts—it was about the pure joy of being on the ice. Teaching them, watching them discover that same joy, it fills something in me I didn't even know was empty.

I lean against the boards. Looking at my son out there, taking his first real steps toward the game I love, I realize this is exactly where I'm meant to be. The journey here wasn't easy, but it led me somewhere better than I could have imagined. Somewhere real.

The ice rink, the smell of freshly cut grass back at the ranch, the quiet nights with Aubrey by my side—these are the things that matter now.

And if I can help Luke find his way, be there to guide him like Aubrey was for me, then maybe I'm doing something right after all.