26. Homecoming

Reunion, July 30 – August 1, 2010

Returning to Ann Arbor feels less like a retreat and more like a system reboot. The transition from London is seamless, the kind of logistical perfection that usually implies Kiyomi’s fingerprints are all over the itinerary. Asuka and I slip back into our building within an hour; it feels as if we never left. I can tell Asuka is looking forward to seeing Willow by the way she practically launches herself out of the elevator as we say goodbye to one another.

The first order of business isn’t code or conditioning; it’s Hanna.

We order in from Good Time Charley’s—something greasy that definitely isn’t on my training diet—and sit at the island in the kitchen. She looks happy. Better than good. There’s a vibrancy to her now that wasn’t there a few months ago, a color in her cheeks that speaks of real sunlight and not just the glow of a monitor.

“Engagement is up twelve percent on the fan page,” she says, scrolling through her laptop with a dexterity that rivals my own. “And the sentiment analysis is holding steady, even with the paparazzi shots from Italy and London.”

“You’re a wizard,” I say, grabbing a Count Twist breadstick. “I don’t know how you do it.”

She smiles, but it falters around the edges. She sets the tablet down, her fingers tracing the bezel. “It’s the structure, Michael. The classes, the work ... you.” She looks up, her blue eyes wide and suddenly vulnerable. “I feel strong right now. But sometimes ... sometimes I worry that if I drift too far from your orbit, if I step outside this bubble, I’ll unravel.”

I stop chewing. I wipe my hands on a napkin and lean in, resting my elbows on the granite. I don’t give her pity; she doesn’t need pity. She needs facts.

“Hanna,” I say, my voice dropping to that register I use when I need absolute clarity. “You aren’t a satellite. You’re part of the core. You don’t orbit me; we move together. You’re family. And family doesn’t get left behind just because the geography changes.”

Her shoulders drop an inch. The tension bleeds out of her frame, replaced by a relieved, sibling-like warmth. “Okay,” she whispers.

“Okay,” I confirm. “Now pass the garlic sauce.”

The next morning, the call of the wild is too loud to ignore. I head to Yost.

The Old Barn smells exactly as it should: popcorn, ancient plumbing, and the damp, metallic scent of cold equipment. It’s a sensory trigger that instantly drops my heart rate. The place is empty, just the hum of the compressors and the low-ceiling echo that makes every sound feel substantial.

I step onto the ice, and the world narrows down to edges and angles.

For the first twenty minutes, I don’t touch a puck. I focus on the blades. I push into the ice, feeling the bite of the steel. I’m not an agility skater; I don’t dance East-West. I’m a power skater. I dig deep ruts, using my mass to generate momentum. One, two, three—the first three steps are violent stabs, running on ice, pure acceleration mechanics before I settle into the long, rhythmic lunges that eat up the neutral zone.

Once the legs are burning, I pull the pucks out.

I work on the “Clapper” first. I wind up, feeling the shaft of the stick bow like a hunting bow, storing potential energy before releasing it with a gunshot crack. The sound ricochets off the bleachers. Then I switch to the “Wristy.” No wind-up, just deception. I roll the puck from heel to toe, listening for the zip off the blade and the snap of my wrists.

I aim for “Grandma’s peanut butter”—top shelf, where the goalie can’t reach. I hit the crossbar, Snick-Pop, bar down.

It’s meditation. It’s re-acquainting my body with precision after weeks of chaotic variables. Out here, the physics are consistent. If you do the work, the puck goes where you tell it.

While I’m sweating out the jet lag, I know other variables are being calculated elsewhere. Asuka went to see Willow.

I don’t know the details, and honestly, I don’t ask. That’s a closed loop between the two of them. I know enough about Asuka to know she doesn’t do jealousy, and I know enough about Willow to know she needs truth, even if it cuts. I imagine it was blunt. I imagine boundaries were drawn and erased.

The confirmation comes the next day when Willow asks me to lunch.

We meet near State Street. She looks tired but thoughtful, her dirty blonde hair catching the summer wind. There’s a flush to her cheeks that I suspect has nothing to do with the heat.

We walk for a bit, finding a rhythm that doesn’t require words. When we finally stop to eat, the conversation is cautious. We’re navigating a minefield of past mistakes, but for the first time, we aren’t trying to pretend the mines aren’t there.

“I talked to Asuka,” Willow says, picking at her salad.

“I figured.”

“She was ... thorough,” Willow says, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. “She didn’t sugarcoat anything. The kiss. The ... other things. Molly.”

I wince internally but keep my face neutral. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

“I know. That’s what makes this different.” She looks at me, her blue eyes searching mine. “I don’t want to go back to how we were, Michael. We were broken. I want to move forward. But I need to know that there’s space for me in this new world you’re building.”

“There’s always space for you,” I say, and I mean it. “But the geometry is different now.”

“Parallel lines,” she murmurs. “Coexisting.”

“Something like that.”

The lunch ends without grand declarations or cinematic kisses. We stand on the sidewalk, the heat of the pavement radiating up through our shoes. I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. It’s restrained, grounded. It’s not a promise of forever, but it’s an acknowledgement of now.

We walk back to the condo in a silence that feels companionable rather than loaded, the humidity of the afternoon settling around us. Inside the cool air of the lobby, we stop in front of the elevator banks. Willow turns, tilting her head back to look up at me. There’s a question in her eyes, or maybe just an answer. I look down, closing the distance, and the kiss we exchange is slow, heartfelt, and entirely grounded in the present.

The elevator arrives with a soft chime. We step in as the metal doors slide shut, sealing us in for the brief ride up. When the car halts at her floor, she offers me a final, soft smile and steps out. I watch the doors slide closed again, cutting off the view of her fine ass, and I continue the ascent to the penthouse feeling lighter than I have in months.

August 1st is a Sunday, which means only one thing in Ann Arbor: Angelo’s.

It’s a tradition that borders on religion. I round up the troops. Hanna is shotgun, looking eager. Willow and Asuka slide into the back, their dynamic shifted to a relaxed quiet.

But today, the table needs to be bigger. I make the call to the Compound.

When we walk into the diner, the smell of deep-fried French toast and bacon hits us like a physical wall. We push tables together. It’s a motley crew: me, the girls, and the Matsuda contingent. Mitsy is buzzing with energy, practically vibrating in her seat. Kiyomi looks elegant and professional even in a casual setting on a Sunday morning. And Hiroto...

Hiroto is looking at the menu with the intensity of a man planning a hostile takeover.

“I will have the French toast,” Hiroto announces to the waitress with grave seriousness. “And the raisin bread. And the bacon. And ... what is this ‘deep-fried’ option?”

“It’s death on a plate, buddy,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Order two.”

Kiyomi looks horrified. “Hiroto,” she hisses, “Sonna ni tanonda no?” Think of your dignity.”

“My dignity demands syrup, Kiyomi,” he replies smoothly.

When the food arrives, it’s a massacre. I’m putting away calories like I’m fueling a furnace, which makes sense given the training volume I’m about to hit. But seeing Hiroto, usually so composed and executive, dismantling a stack of toast with equal ferocity is a sight to behold.

Kiyomi watches him, shaking her head, but I catch the ghost of a smile on her face. Mitsy is stealing bacon off my plate, and Hanna is laughing at something Asuka said.

“He is enjoying himself,” Asuka observes quietly, watching Hiroto. Then her eyes flick to me, dark and amused. “He will need to be punished like you tomorrow. I have new drills for you.”

“Don’t tell him until he finishes the syrup,” I say.

I look around the table. Asuka and Willow are passing the sugar. Hanna is showing Mitsy something on her phone. Kiyomi is lecturing Hiroto while stealing a bite of his eggs.

It hits me then, clearer than anything I’ve felt in a long time. These relationships aren’t competing for space anymore. They aren’t separate worlds fighting for my attention. They’re moving together. In sync. Coexisting.

I take a bite of raisin bread and smile. It’s good to be home.

The Rust and the Iron, August 2 - 14, 2010

The phone feels light in my hand, a tether to a world of camera flashes and designer suits that already feels a thousand miles away. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in Ann Arbor, but my head is still halfway across the Atlantic.

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head from here, Michael,” Molly’s voice comes through the speaker, crisp and polished, carrying that effortless British cadence that always makes me smile. “You’re already thinking about skate sharpenings and stick curves, aren’t you?”

“Guilty,” I admit, leaning back against the wall. “But I wanted to say thank you. Seriously, Mol. The holiday was ... it was exactly what I needed. The whole thing.”

“It was lovely, wasn’t it?” She pauses, and I can hear the faint rustle of fabric, likely her moving through the London townhouse or prepping for her next shoot. “The press isn’t letting up, by the way. The photos are everywhere. My agent is ecstatic, naturally, but it’s a bit strange not having you here to share the madness.”

“Better you than me right now,” I say, though I feel a pang of regret. “You handle the paparazzi better than I do. I glare at them until they leave.”

“We’ll reconnect in New York,” she assures me, her tone shifting to that professional, forward-looking optimism we both thrive on. “David got your email about finding us a weekend shoot. He’s already run it past my agent, and they think a job for both of us in late September is perfect. Until then, try not to get too battered on the ice, alright? I can’t have my favorite co-star looking like he went ten rounds with a blender.”

“No promises,” I laugh. “Take care of yourself, Treadwell.”

“You too, Stewart.”

I hang up, letting the silence of the room settle over me for a second before the itch returns. The quiet doesn’t suit me. I need the noise, the grind, the friction of work.

I grab my gear bag and head out.

Walking into Yost is like stepping into a cathedral built for violence and speed. It has a specific atmosphere, a heaviness in the air that you don’t find in modern arenas. The moment I push through the heavy doors, the smell hits me—a complex cocktail of stale rubber, chalk dust from the weight room, and that sharp, metallic scent of cold sweat. It smells like work. It smells like home.

In the locker room, I suit up quickly, the ritualistic “thwip” of laces through eyelets and the familiar compression of shin guards grounding me.

I hit the ice alone. The sheet is fresh, a mirrored surface of hard, fast water that Rolf has laid down with obsessive care.

I start slow, just feeling the edges. I ease into a pattern of Russian Circles, crossing over smoothly to build momentum as I wind through the neutral zone. The steel bites into the ice with a satisfying shaving sound, spraying a fine white mist of snow from the outside edge. It’s all about the geometry, the “Zanshin” awareness of where my body is in space. I let the world narrow down. There is no modeling contract here, no Olympic gold medal hanging around my neck, no cameras—just the friction of steel on ice.

I drag the heavy steel-reinforced cutout onto the ice. “Patrick.”

Rolf built this thing after I shattered “Simon,” the old plywood target, back in my freshman year. Patrick is a tank—plywood faced with steel plating, painted to look like Patrick Roy, with holes cut in the corners and the five-hole.

I line up a row of pucks at the blue line.

First, the wristies. I keep my feet moving, mimicking a game situation. I drag the puck from the heel to the toe of the blade, snapping my wrists at the release point. Zip. Ping. The puck rings off the crossbar. Not good enough.

I reset.

Zip. Pop.

That’s the sound. The mesh snaps as the puck buries itself top shelf, tucking high and tight under the crossbar. I find the rhythm, the flow state where the thinking stops and the body takes over. Stickhandling in a phone booth, hands blurring while my head stays up, scanning for the opening.

I switch to the “Clapper.” I wind up, driving my weight down into the shaft. The stick flexes like a hunting bow, storing potential energy before releasing it in a kinetic explosion. Crack.

The puck slams into the steel plating of the target with a dull, resonant thud—a miss.

I grunt, resetting the puck. Crack. This time, there’s no metallic clang, just the violent whip of the net bulging. I run the drill until my forearms burn and the sweat is stinging my eyes, refusing to stop until I can hit the “snick-pop” of the bar-down shot three times in a row.

“You’re gonna put a hole through the back wall, Mikey,” a voice calls out.

I look up, heaving for breath, to see Rolf leaning against the zam gates. He’s wearing his usual faded work jacket, looking unimpressed as always.

“Just knocking the rust off, Rolf,” I call back, skating over to help him drag the target off the ice.

We haul Patrick toward the storage room. Patrick is looking rough; the steel plate is dented and scarred, the paint chipped away by thousands of impacts.

“He’s seen better days,” Rolf says, patting the metal face of the cutout. “That slap shot of yours is getting heavier. Patrick here is pretty dinged up. Might be time to retire him.”

“Yeah,” I agree, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. “Whatever we build next needs to be stronger.”

Rolf nods, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I’m thinking we change the goalie, too. Roy’s a legend, sure, but if we’re building a new one ... maybe it’s time for Brodeur.”