I’ve been replaying that conversation with Lena for days. The way she stood there in the tunnel, nervous but trying to be brave. The way she thanked me, quiet, sincere, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to. The way her eyes kept flicking away from mine, like looking at me too long might burn. It was awkward. Painfully awkward. But it was also the first real conversation we’ve had in years. And now I can’t stop thinking about her.
I keep catching myself looking for her truck when I pull into the arena. I keep glancing toward the pond on my early mornings, wondering if she’s out there skating. I keep thinking about how small she looked in that lobby, surrounded by cameras and questions she didn’t deserve. I want to talk to her again. I want to start over. I want to know her again. But
