*Ava*
The arena air hits me before I see the ice, that sharp mix of chlorine and cold and the faint rubber tang of dasher boards. I haven't been inside the Pelicans' practice facility since the morning Mark Tierney handed me the administrative leave letter, and the familiarity of it settles somewhere uncomfortable, like a coat I've outgrown but still have to wear.
My sneakers make no sound on the rubberized floor as I push through the tunnel entrance. The rink opens up in front of me, vast and empty except for one figure cutting lazy circles near center ice.
Rasmus.
I stop at the top of the bleachers, not ready to announce myself. He hasn't seen me yet. His head is down, stick handling a puck through a series of invisible obstacles, and the rhythm of it is hypnotic, blade on ice, puck
