The new guy arrives on a Tuesday morning.
Chad Bennett. Tall, built like he was carved specifically for hockey, with the kind of quiet intensity I recognize immediately.
He doesn't swagger into the locker room or crack jokes to break the ice. Just finds his assigned stall, starts suiting up like he's been here for years.
I'm skeptical. I've been burned too many times to welcome newcomers with open arms, and part of me resents Chad simply for existing. For being Ryan's replacement. For filling a space that shouldn't be empty in the first place.
"So you're the famous Captain Carpenter," Chad says when Coach introduces us. His handshake is firm, professional. "Looking forward to working together."
"We'll see how it goes," I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
Chad just nods, unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. "Fair enough."
I watch him lace up his skates with the detached judgment of a captain assessing a potential liability. Everything about him seems methodical, precise. No wasted movement. No nervous energy. Just quiet competence.
Then we hit the ice, and my skepticism dissolves like sugar in hot water. Chad is good. Not just competent—genuinely talented.
His skating is fluid and precise, his reflexes sharp, his hockey IQ evident in every decision he makes. He reads plays before they develop, positions himself perfectly, executes drills with effortless precision that only comes from years of dedicated training.
"Nice work," Jackson calls out after Chad nails a particularly complex passing sequence. "Where'd you play before this?"
"Around," Chad replies, already skating toward the next drill. End of conversation.
By the end of practice, I have to admit the bitter truth: Chad earned his spot. This isn't charity or desperation. The guy belongs here.
But he's nothing like Ryan.
Where Ryan was warm and observant, always noticing when someone was off their game, always ready with quiet support or a bad joke to lighten the mood, Chad is a closed door.
He speaks when necessary, short, professional sentences about plays and positioning, and otherwise keeps entirely to himself.
"You grabbing a beer with us?" Tyler asks after we've showered and changed.
"Thanks, but I'm good," Chad says, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Come on, it's tradition. New guy's first week."
"I appreciate the offer. Maybe next time."
But we all know there won't be a next time. Chad doesn't linger after practice to chat. Doesn't join the team for drinks or dinners. Doesn't seem interested in building relationships beyond what's strictly required for on-ice chemistry.
In some ways, he reminds me of myself. The same single-minded ambition. The same walls built high and thick. The same refusal to let anyone get too close.
The difference is, Chad's isolation feels like a choice. Like he simply doesn't need people the way others do. Mine has always been a defense mechanism, armor built from years of hiding who I really am.
It should be refreshing—a teammate who won't complicate things with emotions or expectations. Instead, it just makes me feel more alone.
I start texting Ryan that night: How's Denver treating you?
The response comes three hours later: Good.
Asher: Team okay?
Ryan: Yeah.
Asher: Miss having you on the ice. New guy's talented but it's not the same.
No response.
As the days pass and Chad's presence continues to underscore Ryan's absence, my texts grow more frequent. More desperate.
Asher: Remember that play we used to run on the power play? Tried it today with Chad. Didn't work without you.
Ryan: Busy.
Asher: Could use my partner back. My friend.
Ryan: Ash, I'm trying to focus on my new team right now.
Asher: Just want to make sure you're okay.
Ryan: I'm fine.
Asher: Are we okay?
No response for six hours. Then: Of course. Just adjusting.
But it doesn't feel fine. It feels like texting a stranger wearing Ryan's face—polite but distant, offering nothing real. Every conversation dies before it starts, every attempt at connection met with walls I can't breach.
I tell myself he's just adjusting. New team, new city, new pressures. Anyone would be distracted.
"You seem off lately," Jackson says after a particularly brutal practice where I couldn't seem to sync with anyone. "Everything alright?"
"Fine. Just missing our chemistry with Ryan."
"Chad's good though. Give it time."
"Yeah, maybe."
Jackson studies my face. "You've been texting him a lot."
I don't ask how he knows. Teammates notice everything. "Is that a problem?"
"Not a problem. Just... might be better to let him settle in with his new team instead of looking backward."
"Since when do you give relationship advice?"
"Since my captain looks like he hasn't slept in a week." Jackson's voice softens. "I get it, man. You had something good with Ryan. But he made his choice. Maybe it's time to accept that and move forward."
Deep down, I know he's right. But accepting feels like giving up, and I've already lost too much this year.
That night, I try one more time: Miss talking to you. Really miss having you around.
The response comes quickly, for once: Ash, please. I'm trying to move on. Maybe you should too.
The words hit like a physical blow. I stare at the screen until the letters blur, until my chest aches with the weight of another goodbye I didn't see coming.
Ryan doesn't want to talk to me. Whatever connection we had—whatever almost-relationship we were building—he's severed it cleanly. And I still don't understand why.
Now it's well past midnight, and I'm sitting alone in my apartment. Phone dark on the coffee table. Silence pressing in from every direction.
I think about Ryan's monosyllabic texts. About Chad's polite distance. About Jackson, who's been my only consistent companion lately—always nearby, always ready with advice and support, but somehow never quite filling the void.
And I think about Blaze. Always Blaze. The ghost that haunts every quiet moment, the name I refuse to speak but can't stop thinking about. Ice-blue eyes and a smile that used to make me forget everything else existed.
Everyone leaves. Everyone pulls away eventually.
I've spent my entire life building walls to protect myself from exactly this. Keeping people at arm's length where they can't hurt me. And somehow, I've still ended up completely alone.
The apartment feels too big around me. Too quiet. Too empty.
I sit in the darkness and let the loneliness swallow me whole, wondering when exactly my life became this hollow echo of itself. Wondering if there's anyone left who would notice if I just... disappeared entirely.
The silence has no answers. It never does.