✧ loss and hockey ✧
(death mention)
the rink was silent—eerily so—but for the soft scrape of skates slicing through the freshly smoothed ice. the world outside was cloaked in darkness, as if it, too, had chosen to mourn. only the rink was lit: cold, sterile overhead lights humming faintly, casting pale reflections on the glossy ice. niko moved like a shadow, fast and fluid, gliding from one end to the other, breath forming ghosts in the air behind him. there was no music playing. he didn’t need it. the silence was its own kind of song.
it had been a hard day—hard in a way that didn’t shout, but weighed heavily, like wet snow on branches. his mother’s birthday. it always hit like this. not with an explosion of grief, but a slow, steady ache that started behind his ribs and bloomed into something unbearable as the hours passed. she’d been gone for years now, taken when he was nineteen—an age too old to cry without shame and too young to know how to carry sorrow. there had been no instruction manual for this kind of loss. no one had told him that grief wasn't a one-time thing, but a series of echoes that would come back again and again, louder some days, quieter others, but always there.
he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. he never did. earlier that week, he’d asked the janitor at the local rink—an old man who understood the weight behind the request without needing it explained—for the keys. the man handed them over with a wordless nod, and no questions asked. that unspoken permission was one of the few mercies niko clung to.
so now, in the hollow hours of the night, he skated. he pushed hard with each stride, driving himself forward, sharp and fast. the cold bit at his cheeks and nose, stinging tears from his eyes, though he told himself it was just the wind. the rhythmic sound of his blades carving the ice was all he could hear, all he wanted to hear. it was a way of drowning everything else out—his thoughts, his guilt, the memories that bubbled up against his will.
his mother had always loved watching him play. she never missed a game. rain or snow, sickness or health, she was there in the stands, clutching a thermos of cheap coffee and cheering like he was already in the nhl. her voice, loud and proud, had always cut through the noise of the crowd. he missed that most. that unwavering belief. that warmth.
he was skating not for training, not for a match, but to keep himself from breaking. the faster he went, the less he felt. and that was the goal—to feel nothing, if only for a while. he raced from one end to the other until his lungs burned and his legs screamed, until sweat mingled with the cold on his skin. until the line between physical exhaustion and emotional numbness blurred enough to be bearable.
eventually, he came to a stop near the goal. he pulled a puck from his jacket pocket—a single black disk, cold and hard in his hand. he knelt and set it gently on the ice, like it was something sacred, like it was a flower laid on a grave. then he stepped back, adjusted his stick, and took his stance. one breath in. one breath out. he shot.
the puck sailed clean and sharp into the net, slicing through the stillness like a promise. no fanfare. no applause. just the quiet thunk of rubber hitting mesh and the dull echo of memory in his chest. niko looked up. past the rink lights. past the roof. past everything. and he pointed to the sky. he always did that—every time he scored, in any game, public or private. it was his small, sacred ritual. his silent way of saying this one’s for you, mom. but tonight, it wasn’t just a gesture. tonight, it wasn’t just habit. tonight, everything was about her.
afterward, he sat on the bench for a while, skates still on, breath still heavy. the rink lights flickered slightly, and in the dim stillness, he let himself close his eyes. he didn’t cry. he rarely did. but the ache in his chest felt sharper than usual, like it might cut its way out. it was always like this on her birthday—lonely, quiet, raw. a part of him still wanted to hear her voice. still wanted to believe, somehow, that she knew. that she saw him. that she was proud of the man he was trying to become.
eventually, he stood and locked the doors behind him. his apartment was only a short walk away. whether thalia was there waiting or whether the place was dark and empty didn’t matter. either way, he wouldn’t speak of it. he never did. this night was his. his burden. his remembrance. his silent tradition. and as he slipped under the covers, body sore, eyes burning, heart aching in that deep, quiet way that never fully healed, he whispered into the darkness a promise he’d kept every year since she died. "happy birthday, mom. i hope i made you proud."
