A Canvas Called Violet

🏒 Leo

My blade taps once against the ice.

I crouch at the blue line and wait for Coach’s whistle.

Cold air bites at the strip of skin between my neck guard and helmet. Usually I like that part. It keeps me awake. Keeps me sharp. Reminds my body where it is.

Today it just feels cold.

“Again,” Coach snaps.

We reset for the Cycle Support Drill.

Corner to point.

Back down low.

Repeat.

I’ve done this drill so many times I should be able to run it half-asleep. My body should know where to go before my brain catches up.

But all morning, everything has been off by half a second.

The whistle blows.

I push off, cut down the wing, and try to settle into the pattern.

Catch.

Move.

Turn.

Support.

Simple.

Except it isn’t.

My legs feel heavy. My timing feels wrong. The pass off the boards hits my stick and still doesn’t settle clean. I recover fast enough that nobody says anything.

But I feel it.

That tiny mistake.

That ugly little hitch.

The next rep goes worse.

I hit the corner, try to pivot, and my right edge slips.

For half a second, my body forgets what it’s supposed to do.

Then I slam shoulder-first into the boards hard enough to rattle my ribs.

I stay there.

Just for a second.

The lights blur white above me. My stick skids out of reach. My chest burns with that hot mix of pain and embarrassment that always hits worse when people saw it happen.

And they saw it.

Of course they did.

Up in the stands, a man in a dark coat sits behind the glass with a clipboard balanced on one knee.

Scout, maybe.

Sponsor rep.

Doesn’t matter.

He’s looking right at me.

“Get up, Thorne,” Coach barks.

I swallow, push myself upright, and grab my stick.

“I’m up.”

My voice sounds rough.

Good.

Matches the rest of me.

We line up again.

The rink smells like old tape, damp gear, and the popcorn machine from the snack counter out front. My gloves are wet inside. Sweat sticks my shirt to my skin under the pads.

Everything is too loud.

Skates scraping.

Sticks knocking.

Coach shouting.

Guys breathing hard.

Usually all of that turns into rhythm.

Today it’s just noise.

“Move your feet,” Coach shouts.

I do.

I skate the next rep.

Then the next.

Then the one after that.

My hands are there. My instincts are there. My body just won’t follow through the way it should.

I keep missing by inches.

A pass a little off.

A turn a little slow.

A shot release just late enough to kill the whole thing.

Yesterday, I missed a one-timer so badly it rang off the glass and nearly took out the assistant coach’s coffee.

Nobody said much.

They didn’t have to.

I saw the look.

What the hell is going on with him?

I’ve been hearing it in my head ever since.

“Pick it up,” someone calls from behind me.

Marcus skates by and taps my shin pad with his stick. He means well. I know he does.

Right now, even support feels like pressure.

I don’t want encouragement.

I want one shift where I feel like myself again.

The playoffs are close. Scouts have been showing up more. Sponsors keep asking for appearances. Vincent keeps calling about interviews and visibility and timing like my life is a campaign he’s trying to win.

Every practice feels like it matters twice.

If I screw up in March, people talk about it in April.

That’s the job.

I know that.

Still doesn’t make this feel better.

We run the drill again.

Then again.

By the end of practice, my lungs burn and my jersey is soaked through. I’m moving on irritation by then, not focus, and Coach knows it.

The whistle finally blows.

Nobody says much on the way off the ice.

That’s almost worse.

Usually somebody starts talking before we even hit the tunnel. Chirping. Complaining. Laughing about something stupid.

Today it’s just skates on rubber mats and gear shifting as everyone heads for the room.

The locker room smells like sweat, deodorant, and wet fabric left in a bag too long.

Marcus has music going from his phone. Bass-heavy. Annoying enough to crawl under my skin.

A couple guys mutter while they peel off gear, but nobody’s really talking.

I sit on the bench, rip off my gloves, then my helmet, and drop both harder than I mean to.

My hands are shaking.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for me.

I strip off my pads and shove on a hoodie instead of changing properly.

Cap down.

Head down.

Get out.

I usually retape my stick before I leave.

Stupid habit.

But it settles me.

Same with checking my laces. Same with packing everything in the same order every time. Tape. Gloves. Pads. Skates. Jersey.

Control in little pieces.

Today, I don’t do any of it.

Today, I just need out.

The second I step through the arena doors, somebody screams my name.

“Leo!”

I flinch.

A group of girls in Thunderbolts hoodies rushes across the sidewalk like they’ve been waiting for me. Phones already out. One has glitter on her cheeks in the shape of lightning bolts. Another is carrying a sign with my number in silver marker.

Usually, I can handle this.

Smile.

Selfie.

Quick thanks.

Keep moving.

Not today.

“Oh my God, it’s really him.”

“Leo, can we get a picture?”

“You were amazing last game.”

“I love your hair.”

One of them nearly spills her iced coffee trying to switch to the front camera.

I force a smile and take a step back.

“Thanks. I’m actually kind of in a rush.”

They either don’t hear me or don’t care.

They crowd closer.

I sidestep them and start walking fast down the sidewalk.

Behind me, I hear squeals.

Hurried footsteps.

One voice calling, “Just one selfie!”

I keep going.

The sidewalk is packed with lunch traffic. A mom pushing a stroller. Two office guys arguing over a tablet. A man hauling a cello case like he’s late for the symphony.

I cut between them, shoulder past a newspaper stand, and pull my hood up over my cap.

The girls are still behind me.

“Leo!”

“Wait!”

“Are you dating anyone?”

That almost gets a laugh out of me.

Almost.

Instead, I duck down a side street and break into a jog.

My ribs ache from the boards. Sweat cools fast under my hoodie. My pulse hasn’t come down from practice, so now it feels like I’m being chased by the worst possible extension of my day.

I hit the corner and get three seconds of quiet.

Then I hear them again.

Footsteps.

Breathless laughing.

My name.

I mutter a curse and look up, scanning for somewhere to disappear.

Just for a minute.

That’s when I see it.

A storefront tucked between a tailor and a florist.

Small front window.

Hand-painted sign.

Soft light behind the glass.

A gallery.

It doesn’t look like anything else on the block. It doesn’t try to grab attention. Doesn’t flash or shout or dare anyone to come in.

It just sits there.

Quiet.

Steady.

Like it has nothing to prove.

Behind me, someone calls my name again, closer this time.

I don’t think about it.

I grab the door, pull it open, and step inside.

The bell over the frame gives a sharp little jingle.

The door shuts behind me.

And everything changes.

The air is warmer.

Still.

It smells like clay, paint, and something clean I can’t place.

No whistles.

No skates.

No fans calling my name.

No cameras.

Just silence.

Real silence.

Not empty.

Not awkward.

Calm.

I stand there for a second, breathing hard, letting it hit me.

My chest loosens for the first time all day.

The space is quiet in a way the rink never is. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from me. The kind that lets a person exist without performing.

I look through the soft light at the shapes in the room.

Paintings.

Sculptures.

A table near the back with jars lined in careful rows.

A space that feels intentional in every direction.

I don’t know her yet.

I don’t know why this room feels like the first deep breath I’ve taken all day.

I only know I’m not leaving.

Not yet.