Coming Home

The rink was exactly as Jordan remembered it.

Large banners advertising local businesses and Tim Hortons plastered the insides of the boards, while the chipped glass rose high into the sky. The smells of the rink food permeated the air, tantalizing his senses. The old wooden stands still stood on the far side, though they were empty of their usual spectators. Ordinarily, there would always be at least one or two hockey moms sitting in the crowd, encouraging their son or daughter to continue trying their best.

“One day, you might play in the NHL!” they had said.

“C’mon Jordan, you want to be better than your brothers, right?” they had said.

But none of that mattered now. Jordan had made a niche in the Pittsburgh Penguins, and he had raised the Stanley Cup with the team. And as Jordan looked around the place where he spent most of his childhood, he realized that he was entirely alone. All that was here was him, and the ice.

“And that’s all I need,” he thought matter-of-factly. The ice had been freshly zambonied, and Jordan smiled as he glided effortlessly across it, his muscles strong and powerful.

He couldn’t help this nagging doubt in the back of his mind, however. It nipped and teased his consciousness, taunting him with knowledge that was just out of reach. “There’s something important you’re missing,” it whispered gently to him, “and you’ll never figure it out in time.”

Jordan shook his head. He was on the ice, and he was happy. He couldn’t exactly remember how he had gotten here, nor could he remember much before that, but he knew that it had been awhile since he was last happy. But…he couldn’t remember quite why. In fact, he realized with a jolt, the last thing he could remember at all was winning the Stanley Cup Final back in 2009.

“But that can’t be right,” he said out loud to himself. “That was…years ago.”

But the truth was, Jordan couldn’t remember how many years it had been. All he knew was that time had passed, events had occurred, and now he was on the ice at Delaney Arena Ice Skating Rink in Thunder Bay, ON.

The question was…how did Jordan get there? What had happened between raising the Stanley Cup and then?

“You’ll never figure it out, ” the voice taunted in his head.

“Like hell I won’t,” Jordan spat out in frustration.

Suddenly, Jordan realized there was a stick in his hand and a puck by his feet. Instinct overtook him, and he couldn’t help but skate in serpentines across the ice—a drill that had been his favorite as a kid. He wondered briefly how the hockey gear had appeared, but the sheer joy of again being able to skate was too powerful to ignore.

“Again…”

The word “again” resonated through the core of his being. It must have been quite some time since he had last skated. But why? What in the world could possibly keep him from the ice that he loved?

Growing up hadn’t been exactly easy for Jordan. Even at a young age, Eric and Marc did absolutely everything together; they were more or less inseparable. When they inevitably got involved with hockey, they worked on passes and drills on the backyard rink for hours, until their mother called them in for dinner. Jordan wanted nothing more than to be accepted by them, so he constantly asked if he could practice too.

More often than not, they refused. Jordan tried to get Jared to practice with him until he got good enough to practice with the older boys, but after an unfortunate (and rather nasty) incident involving a puck to the head and three stitches, it was determined that Jared wouldn’t play hockey until he was older. So, Jordan spent hours alone on the ice, trying to figure out ways to become a better player.

Occasionally, his parents would worry about him. Eric, Marc, and even Jared had friends that would frequent the house. Jordan, however, decided that it was simply easier to work alone or with his grandpa. Even throughout most of his schooling, he sat alone at the lunchroom table, eating his peanut butter and jelly in absolute silence.

Jordan learned early on that he didn’t need anyone or anything. The only thing that was always consistent—always there for him—was the ice. It didn’t matter what happened to him in life; he knew that as long as he could get to the ice, he would be okay…

Something had been keeping him from the ice. Something huge had happened, and he was unable to escape to the solitude of his sanctuary. But what was it?

Jordan skated around in lazy circles, his eyes completely unfocused. His mind was waging a war against itself as he tried desperately to catch the information that eluded him. Entirely distracted by his thoughts, Jordan didn’t notice a lone figure enter the rink and skate on to the ice.

THWACK! A puck went sailing through the air, cracking onto the glass behind his left ear. Jordan wheeled around in surprise, his eyes training on the man skating towards him.

“Grandpa?” he asked in shock, his voice breaking.

“Get the puck, boy,” George Staal growled, his own stick held tightly in his hands. “We’ve got a game to play.”

Jordan’s brain screamed at him in protest. How could his grandfather be here? He had died in 2008, during the Stanley Cup playoffs. The entire family had converged in Thunder Bay for the funeral. Jordan had been there. He had seen his grandfather lowered into the ground with his own eyes.

“C’mon, boy! I haven’t got all day! First one to five, eh?” the elder Staal commanded, skating to center ice where he tapped his stick to the ground repeatedly in impatience. Numbly, Jordan picked up the puck in his left hand and skated to mid-ice.

His grandfather was dead. And if his grandfather was dead, and Jordan was skating with him…

Suddenly everything began falling into place.

George Staal had always been good at hockey. However, after getting arthritis back in 2003, he hadn’t been able to play quite as well. Clearly this problem didn’t persist in the afterlife, as he got the first goal, slipping it past Jordan and to the net with ease.

However, George also hasn’t played Jordan since he was drafted into the NHL. After making a beautiful move, Jordan wristed the puck towards the goal with a flourish, a trick he had learned from Sidney Crosby. The score was tied 1-1, and neither Staal wanted to lose.

As the puck sailed into the goal a second time for Jordan, a wave of pain swept through him. Memories were coming back more and more as they played. Suddenly, he could remember meeting Jenna. After the third goal, he could remember her leaving him. After the fourth, he could remember the injury that had ended his career.

By the end of the game, Jordan had collapsed on the ground, tears streaming down his face and dry heaves wracking his body. Everything had come back to him—every tiny, miniscule detail of his life—even the things he wished he could have forgotten.

“Grandpa,” he cried, unable to look up, “I’m dead, aren’t I? That crash killed me…”

It made sense after all. Why else would he be in this perfect place with his hero, the man who had introduced him to hockey? Why else would he be free from his pain that constantly wracked his hip, the injury that had forced him to quit skating for good? The last thing he could recall was Jenna, the girl who had captured his heart, leaving him. He had gone after her, refusing to let their relationship end for good, but the next thing he truly remembered was the headlights of another vehicle crashing into the side of his car with a sickening crunch. Then…the blackness had overtaken him, and he had been transported here.

He was dead. He knew it. This must have been heaven, or hell, or a mixture of both. Jordan wasn’t entirely sure which, and he didn’t think he wanted to find out either.

With a chuckle, George Staal rested a large hand on his grandson’s back. “No, Jordan,” he said softly. “You’re not dead. But you’re close.”

“What do you mean?” he managed, looking up through blurry eyes to his grandfather.

George hesitated. “I’m here to offer you life,” he said.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood//And sorry I could not travel both//And be one traveler, long I stood//And looked down one as far as I could//To where it bent in the undergrowth.”

“Then took the other, as just as fair,//And having perhaps the better claim,//Because it was grassy and wanted wear;//Though as for that the passing there//Had worn them really about the same.”

“And both that morning equally lay//In leaves no step had trodden black.//Oh, I kept the first for another day!//Yet knowing how way leads on to way,//I doubted if I should ever come back.”

Jordan paused in confusion. “What does that even mean?” he queried.

George shook his head, exasperation clouding his features. “It means, my grandson, that you have a choice. You can choose to pass away, and you’ll live here forever, happy and healthy and free. It would be easy, and you would have an eternity to do whatever you please. Or…you can choose to fight. And it will be tough and dangerous. You’ll be in pain and you’ll have a long road to recovery. You might never be able to skate again, and you might not get that girl back that you’re pining for. Nothing is guaranteed in life, after all—only death is certain.”

An image of Jenna flashed through his mind. It was a simple memory. It was immediately after the first time he had kissed her. She had been hesitant, but he saw something glimmer in the depths behind her eyes. He knew then, despite how early it was, that Jenna was the one he wanted to be with forever. That was all it had taken for her to capture his heart.

“I’ll fight,” he said softly. “I have to. I have to get back to Jenna…my Jenna…Even if she won’t have me, I have to tell her I love her. I can’t let this be the end of our story.”

Suddenly, a bright flash of light burst through his mind, and Jordan felt more pain than he had ever felt before. His grandfather and his childhood rink were gone. Everything about him hurt—his arms, his legs, his neck, his torso. There was absolutely no part of his body that didn’t feel like the devil himself was stabbing.

Jordan realized with a start that the bright light wasn’t just in his mind. Laboriously, he forced his eyes open to the blindingly white hospital room surrounding him. He knew without a doubt that he was alive, and he knew that no matter what…he would fight. He was being given a second chance at life, and he sure as hell didn’t plan on wasting it.