Reborn To Be The Hero, But I Just Want To Play Hockey!

I stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the small window of my one-bedroom Toronto apartment. The early morning light barely penetrated the gray clouds, casting a muted glow over the city.

My reflection in the glass caught my attention, and I frowned. My short, pixie-cut black hair clung to my pale skin in stubborn strands that refused to lie flat.

My pale blue eyes, always a touch too intense, stared back at me with the weariness of someone carrying the weight of too many yesterdays.

At six-foot-three, with a broad, muscular frame, I had always felt out of place, even in rooms full of people. The coffee in my hands had long gone cold, its once-inviting aroma now faint and stale. The ceramic mug felt heavy and clammy against my skin, a small, bitter reminder of how long I had been standing there, lost in thought. I didn’t care.

My mind was elsewhere—caught in the endless loop of my own thoughts, replaying the arguments with my parents, the betrayal by my ex, and the nagging question of whether I’d ever find my place in this city. The ache of loneliness mingled with the unyielding rhythm of the world outside, a constant reminder that life was moving on without me.

I took a sip anyway, grimacing at the bitterness. A half-hearted attempt at breakfast sat abandoned on the counter. It was just another day, one in a series of monotonous routines.

Hockey practice wasn’t until late that evening, and without it, my days felt empty. Skating was the only time I felt alive anymore, the only thing that reminded me of who I was before everything fell apart.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at the screen: an email notification. Not the one I was hoping for. I’d sent out dozens of resumes to local businesses in the last few weeks, but the responses were sparse and discouraging.

“Another rejection?” I muttered, tossing the phone aside. It landed face-down, the screen cracked slightly more than it already was. I sighed. Just one more thing to add to the pile.

My gaze drifted to the photo hanging by a magnet on the fridge. It was from my last winter in Haliburton. My parents and I stood side by side on the frozen lake, hockey sticks in hand.

I was smiling—really smiling—my breath visible in the frigid air, my cheeks flushed from the cold. That day had been perfect; the laughter, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging.

But now, looking at it, all I could feel was a deep ache. It wasn’t just the memory of my family that stung, but the realization of how far I’d fallen from that moment. Back then, I believed I could skate my way through anything. Now, I wasn’t even sure if I had the strength to lace up.

But that girl in the photo? She was gone. She’d disappeared the moment I told my parents I was bisexual. The moment they said, “You’ll always have a place with us…if you change your mind.”

My chest tightened at the memory. I turned away from the photo, unwilling to let the familiar wave of anger and sadness take over. I had survived worse, hadn’t I?

I had survived losing my family, survived heartbreak when my girlfriend cheated on me, and survived the bone-deep loneliness that followed. Hockey had been my lifeline through it all.

But surviving wasn’t the same as living.

The outdoor rink at Christie Pits Park was nearly empty when I arrived later that afternoon. With no one else in sight, I decided to practice my shots and drills for a while. Skating with my hockey stick in hand, I let my body take over, the motions so familiar they felt like an extension of myself.

I set up a makeshift goal using two small orange cones I had brought with me, spacing them apart on the far end of the rink.

The slap of the puck against the ice as I practiced my stickhandling sent small echoes across the empty space. The rhythmic sound grounded me, each tap of the puck against my stick matching the cadence of my heartbeat.

Focusing on precision, I wound up for a slapshot. My blade struck the puck with a sharp crack, sending it sailing straight into the gap between the cones.

A satisfied grin tugged at the corners of my lips. I practiced over and over, each shot a release of tension, each goal a small victory.

After a while, I worked on skating drills. I zigzagged across the rink, weaving in and out of an imaginary line of defenders.

The sharp edges of my skates carved graceful arcs into the ice, leaving patterns that shimmered in the fading sunlight. The cold air kissed my cheeks, the smell of winter filling my lungs, and for the first time in a long while, I felt at peace.

There was a moment of stillness when I stopped to catch my breath. I rested my hands on the top of my stick, gazing up at the sky. The clouds had thinned, revealing faint streaks of pink and orange as the sun dipped lower on the horizon.

My breath puffed out in small white clouds, and for that brief, fleeting moment, I felt like everything was going to be okay.

The outdoor rink at Christie Pits Park was nearly empty when I arrived later that afternoon. The crisp air carried the faint smell of snow, and the sound of distant traffic hummed in the background.

Frost clung to the edges of the rink, sparkling under the weak winter sun.

I paused for a moment, letting the serenity settle over me. This was my haven, a place where the chaos of my thoughts could melt away. I pulled my skates from my bag and sat on a worn wooden bench, the familiar creak of the boards grounding me.

As I laced up my skates, the motions felt like a ritual, each pull and knot bringing me closer to a sense of calm. The ice gleamed under the dim winter sun, pristine and waiting, inviting me to leave everything else behind—if only for a little while.

I stepped onto the rink, the cold seeping through the thin soles of my skates and spreading up through my legs. I pushed off, my blades scraping against the surface with a crisp, satisfying sound. The ice felt smooth beneath me, each stride sending a sharp vibration through my body as the blades cut cleanly into the frozen surface.

My body instantly found its rhythm, the chill air rushing past my face and filling my lungs with a sharp, invigorating bite. The cold air stung my cheeks, but I welcomed it.

Out here, there were no rejection emails, no haunting memories, no empty apartment. Just the glide of my skates and the sharp sound of the blades cutting through ice.

A few kids played at the far end of the rink, their laughter echoing in the open air. My lips twitched into a small smile. I remembered being that age, when hockey was just a game, not an escape. I spent a few more moments skating laps, letting the rhythmic motion ground me.

The repetitive push and glide helped loosen the tension in my shoulders. The rink was a sanctuary, a place where the noise in my head could finally quiet down.

As I slowed to a stop, the sound of a mother’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She was calling out frantically, her arms waving toward a little boy near the edge of the rink.

I followed her gaze and saw the child teetering dangerously close to a patch of thin ice. My heart leapt into my throat.

I didn’t think. My heart was pounding in my ears, drowning out everything but the sight of the boy on the precarious ice. I didn’t hesitate.

Adrenaline surged through me as I pushed off hard, my skates scraping against the ice with a sharp, decisive sound. Each stride felt like a race against time, my breath clouding in frantic bursts as I closed the distance.

The sharp scrape of my skates echoed against the icy surface, mingling with the ominous groaning of the cracking ice. Every muscle in my body screamed to move faster, the sound of danger propelling me forward with relentless urgency.

“Stay still!” I shouted, my voice firm but calm. The boy froze, his wide eyes locked on mine. The ice groaned ominously beneath him.

I dropped to my knees a few feet away, spreading my weight out over the surface. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

I reached out, my gloved hand just inches from his. The ice cracked again, and the boy let out a terrified sob.

“Don’t look down,” I said. “Look at me. Just a little closer.”

He reached for me, his small hand trembling. Our fingers touched, and I pulled him toward me with one swift motion. The ice gave way beneath us.

The cold was immediate and all-consuming, biting through my layers and seizing my muscles in an iron grip. The water seemed to suck the breath from my lungs, its icy fingers clawing at my skin as every nerve screamed in protest.

Despite the pain, I couldn’t stop. The boy’s life depended on me, and the thought of letting him go was unbearable. Memories of the countless times I had fought to stand tall, to hold on when everything else fell apart, surged through me.

This wasn’t just about him; it was about proving to myself that I could still make a difference, that I was still strong enough to hold on when it mattered most. Letting go wasn’t an option—not now, not ever.

My mind latched onto every ounce of strength I had left, a determination born from something deeper than instinct—a refusal to fail him, no matter the cost.

My head broke the surface, and the sting of the air against my wet face felt like needles. The boy’s small frame trembled in my grasp, his cries muffled by the chattering of my own teeth. I kicked hard, breaking the surface and pulling him up with me.

“I’ve got you,” I choked out, my teeth chattering. “You’re okay.”

People were shouting now, running toward the edge of the rink. Someone threw a rope, and I grabbed it, holding tight as they pulled me and the boy to safety. My limbs felt like lead, my vision swimming as the cold sapped my strength.

Lying on the snow-covered ground, I watched as the boy was bundled into his mother’s arms, her sobs of relief filling the air. A strange calmness washed over me, even as my body began to shake violently from the cold.

“You’re a hero,” someone said, their voice distant and muffled. The words barely registered. My eyes fluttered shut, and the world went dark.

I woke to a strange warmth, a light so bright it hurt my eyes. My first instinct was to shield my face, but my arms felt oddly weightless, almost detached from me. Panic surged through me for a fleeting moment—what was happening to my body?

Blinking against the radiance, I tried to make sense of my surroundings, my breath catching as awe and disbelief warred within me. The warmth on my skin was soothing, unlike the freezing chill I’d just escaped, and the air smelled faintly of earth and wildflowers.

My heart raced, the lingering fear slowly giving way to wonder. I turned in place, disoriented and overwhelmed, the sheer beauty of the scene making it almost impossible to believe I was still alive. How had I gone from the ice to… wherever this was?

I was standing in a vast, open field beneath a sky filled with stars. But these weren’t the stars I knew. They were too bright, too close, like a thousand tiny suns. The air smelled of earth and something sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.

The ground beneath my feet was soft and cool, a stark contrast to the rigid ice I had left behind. The warmth that surrounded me seemed to sink into my skin, chasing away the last remnants of the bone-deep chill I had felt moments ago.

Every breath I took carried a hint of freshness, as though the air itself was alive, brimming with an energy I couldn’t name. I took a hesitant step forward, the ground beneath me soft and cool. The surreal beauty of the place left me both awestruck and uneasy.

A figure emerged from the starlight, their form shifting and shimmering like the night sky. They moved with an ethereal grace, their presence both calming and unnerving.

“Meredith Foley,” the figure said, their voice echoing in my mind. “You have been chosen.”

I frowned, a mix of confusion and wariness flooding me. “Chosen for what?”

“To be a hero.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. My mind raced, but all I could think was: What the hell is going on?

The figure gestured to the sky, where constellations shifted and danced like living things. “This world is in need of someone like you. Someone with courage and heart.”

I stared at them, my mind rebelling against the absurdity of it all. “You’ve got the wrong person,” I said finally, my voice shaking. “I’m no hero.”

The figure’s expression was unreadable, but there was a softness in their voice when they replied. “You may not believe it now, but you will see. This is your second chance.”

Second chance? The words echoed in my mind, carrying both hope and an overwhelming weight. Before I could respond, the ground beneath me shifted, and the light around me grew brighter. A sensation of falling overtook me, and then...