Chasing the Ice

The rink was eerily silent as Hae-jun skated alone, the sound of his skates carving through the ice filling the space with an almost haunting rhythm. The rink had once been a place of life and excitement, with teammates laughing and competing for victory. Now, it felt like a mausoleum—a place where he had left his dreams behind.

He slowed to a stop, letting his blades scrape the ice as he glided to the edge of the rink. The cold air nipped at his skin, but it wasn’t the chill that made his heart ache. It was the emptiness of the space, the absence of purpose. Hae-jun was no longer a player. He wasn’t even a coach—at least, not the kind he had once imagined himself to be. He was a shadow of the person he had been, the person he had hoped to become.

The game had always been his escape—his way of feeling alive in a world that seemed too big, too overwhelming. He had been the star of his team in his early twenties. His shots were precise, his speed unmatched, and his drive relentless. Hockey was everything to him. But then came the diagnosis—the cold, hard truth that his heart wasn’t strong enough to keep up with his passion.

That was three years ago. Now, at 25, Hae-jun had become a part-time assistant coach for a minor league team—a job that barely paid the bills and left him feeling like a failure. The other players looked at him with a mixture of admiration and pity, as though he were a ghost haunting their practices. He could still remember the day he had stepped off the ice for the last time—the day his heart betrayed him.

But today, the rink felt even colder than it had in years past. The empty stands were a constant reminder that his dreams were locked away, buried beneath the weight of his condition. He glanced over at the vacant bench, imagining his old teammates cheering from the sidelines, their faces blurred with the passage of time. He could still hear their voices in his mind, their encouragements, their jokes, their collective energy. But it was all gone now, replaced by silence.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the stillness of the moment.

With a sigh, he pulled it out, expecting another routine message from his coach or one of the players. Instead, it was a text from his doctor:

“You need to come in for more tests.”

Hae-jun’s stomach dropped. He’d been expecting this message. He’d been bracing himself for this moment, for the confirmation that his condition was worsening, that time was running out. He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of it all pressing down on him like a heavy fog. He had always known that his time in the game was limited, but this—this was different. His health wasn’t just taking him off the ice; it was taking away his future.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he glanced at the message again, the reality sinking in. The doctors had told him he needed to take it easy, that he should stop coaching, that he should consider retiring from everything. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

The sound of skates echoed through the rink, and Hae-jun turned, expecting to see one of the team’s players practicing late. But instead, he found himself alone once again. The rink, cold and uninviting, seemed to swallow everything around him, and he suddenly felt smaller, more fragile than ever before.

As the minutes dragged on, he allowed himself to fall into thought, his mind drifting to the past—to the life he had once envisioned for himself. He had been a rising star, destined for greatness. At least, that’s what everyone had said. His heart had been full of ambition, and every pass, every shot, every goal had been a step toward something bigger. But then the diagnosis had come.

He had fought it for a while. Doctors had promised him that if he took medication and followed their instructions, he could return to the game. But the reality had been far harsher. Every time he stepped on the ice, the fatigue weighed heavier on him, his heart struggling to keep up with his dreams. And then came the final blow—the day the doctors told him that even with treatment, he would never be able to play again. That his heart could no longer keep pace with his passion.

His chest tightened at the thought, the old frustration bubbling to the surface. He had tried to make peace with it, to move on. But the truth was, he couldn’t. Hockey had been his life, his identity. Without it, he was just another face in the crowd.

The rink felt colder now, like a living entity that could sense his turmoil. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when his phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn’t a message from his doctor—it was a call.

Hae-jun’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the name on the screen. It was Ji-ae.

He hadn’t heard from her in months. Ji-ae—his ex-girlfriend. The woman who had once been his everything. The one person who had truly understood him—his love for the game, his dreams, his struggles. She had been there when he was at his best and when he was at his worst. They had shared everything: victories, defeats, dreams of the future.

But after the diagnosis, everything had changed. She had moved on. She had her own life now, and Hae-jun had let her go. He knew it was for the best. He couldn’t drag her down with him.

He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the screen. It had been so long since they had spoken, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear her voice again. But something in his chest stirred, an old longing that he couldn’t ignore. Finally, he swiped to answer the call.

“Hello?” he said, his voice gruff and unsteady.

“You’re still breathing, I see,” Ji-ae’s voice came through, warm and familiar, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t given up yet,” Hae-jun replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He managed a small chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Ji-ae was quiet for a moment, as though she were studying him through the phone. “You don’t sound so good, Hae-jun. You sure you’re alright?”

He hesitated, unsure how much to say. The truth was, he wasn’t alright. He hadn’t been for a long time. But he wasn’t about to unload his fears and regrets on her. Not after everything that had happened.

“I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Well, I thought I’d check in. You’ve been off the grid for a while. Everyone’s worried about you.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. Everyone’s worried about me. Funny, he hadn’t even realized he had been so out of touch. He’d been hiding from them, hiding from everyone, even himself.

“I’m still here, Ji-ae,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “Still stuck in this damn rink.”

She was silent for a moment before she spoke again. “You know, I’ve heard about this ‘bucket list’ thing people do when they’re dying. Maybe you should try it. There’s gotta be something left you want to do, right?”

Her words hung in the air, and Hae-jun felt a strange lump form in his throat. He knew she didn’t mean it the way it felt, but the truth was, she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t have much time left—he could feel it in his bones. The clock was ticking, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do with the time he had left.

He laughed, but it was hollow. “Maybe. But I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, if you had to make a list, what’s the first thing on it?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment. Hae-jun’s eyes flickered to the empty rink again, his gaze drawn to the spot where he had scored his final goal before everything had fallen apart. What was the one thing he wanted to do?

“I’m going to find my father,” he said finally, the words feeling strange but right. “I need to find him, Ji-ae. It’s time.”