Colliding Love - Tucker Billi...

The crisp, clean scent of fresh ice always makes my heart sing. From the minute I stepped into a hockey arena as a kid, something inside me knew I was home in a way I'd never been before. For me, the air in an arena has been rich with possibility from my first deep inhale of its sharp coolness.

So when I arrive at Bellerive's Tucker-Summerset Arena and get within sniffing distance of the ice, I'm not surprised at the rush of pleasure that hits me in the chest, even if I'd rather be in Michigan, or really any other state in America. Hell, I would have even taken a trade to a Canadian province or territory, but the fuckers would not negotiate.

Who puts a World Hockey League team on a tropical island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? Hand on heart, I don't see this move lasting more than five years. They could hold an island wide meeting in this arena, and there'd be almost enough seats for everyone. That's madness. Capital M madness. That's when you know that people who live here have more money than sense, and I've never been about that.

"Mr. Bishop," Tamiko, my tour guide of the arena calls out to me from the bottom of the stands. "Are you coming?"

I don't answer but instead suck in another lungful of my favorite air before ambling down the stairs behind her.

"In here," she says, leading the way down a wide hallway, "are the team changerooms. Your coach assigned your spots in the room." She opens an oversized door, and I step through in front of her. "You'll find names are already attached to different cubbies or whatever you call them in hockey."

Another reason that having a hockey team in this country makes zero sense—not one person I've come into contact with so far has used the terms I'd use for anything.

The space is huge and circular—a lot more room than I was expecting, and I find my name and number easily on one of the squares above the lockers. My place isn't where I want to be in the room, so I'll have to message my agent and manager to fix this shit before we start practicing.

The next surprise, though it shouldn't be, is how clean everything smells. Once a locker room has been used enough, it's musty, even when it's technically clean. The stench seeps into everything and without it, the place feels almost too new and sterile. It's another reminder that people in this country have pinned entirely too much on the success of this team and this arena.

Next, she shows me the weight room, the dry room, and the team's exit out onto the ice surface. Everything is high class and clearly expensive. I can't fault the execution, even if the reasoning behind moving the team here is baffling.

"Any questions?" Tamiko asks.

Any questions I might've had, I already asked my agent months ago when it became apparent this deal was actually going to be approved and go through. I'm convinced that coming to Bellerive is where hockey careers go to die. There's no press following, no international broadcasting contracts, and I don't even want to think about the endorsements that won't happen. 

While money isn't everything, I'm well aware that a few good shots to the head could put me out of the league indefinitely. CTE is no joke, and I trained like a boxer and gymnast, so that if anyone lands on the ice during a fight or a rough bodycheck, it's not me. Speed, flexibility, and endurance have been my three best friends since I entered the league. Longevity is what I'm aiming for, but I already understand all too well how unpredictable life can be.

"Where's my trainer?" I ask, my voice rusty from ill use.

"Your physiotherapist?" Tamiko raises her eyebrows.

"Is that what you call a trainer on this island? Sure. That's what I'm asking about then. It's in my contract." My trainer, Joe, from California opted not to move here, which pissed me off. He'd been a total hard ass on me, but I have to credit him with being part of the reason I've been mostly injury free since I joined the league at eighteen. I've got youth on my side, but it can't just be that with the range and number of hits I've taken, the fights I've gotten in.

"Sawyer will be at the party tonight at the palace. You'll meet then."

I nod, and I don't express how annoying I find this entire process. Why do we need a fancy fucking cocktail event to get to know upper management and other on-island people we'll barely interact with? My manager and agent do all the dirty work. I just play the game.

"And you're my media specialist?"

"That's right," Tamiko says. "We're going to work on bringing the real Logan Bishop out in those interviews."

My lips twitch at the thought. "I don't think you want the real Logan Bishop showing up for anything on this island... Or anywhere else."

"Skeletons in the closet I need to know about? I'm also in charge of putting out social media fires. It's always better to know if something is smoking before it turns into a full-on blaze."

"Nothing that hasn't already come out," I say with a touch of bitterness. The intrusive media attention has been my least favorite aspect of playing hockey so well and at such a high level. The shit people want to know about me is never ending, and quite a lot of it, I wish no one knew at all. But I've learned that any storm settles eventually—you just have to ride it out and pretend you don't care, even when you care too much.

"That's the end of our tour," Tamiko says, shifting toward the locker room door. "I'll take you to your apartment next."

"I want to skate," I say, on impulse. Getting on the ice today isn't on the agenda, and I know from what my agent sent me that today is packed. I also know myself well enough to understand that if I don't do some sort of physical activity, I won't survive this welcome cocktail bullshit they've organized. I'll leave too early or be too surly or somehow make people hate me.

Tamiko checks her watch and bites her lip. "We have maybe thirty minutes for a skate if you just drop your bags in the apartment and come right back out to the car."

"Deal," I say, already striding past her before realizing I don't know my way around this arena well enough to get outside quickly.

"Your bag is here," Tamiko calls after me.

"Here?"

"The driver brought it into the locker room. Everyone who's had a tour has their bag in this room. You can set up your own cubby thing later." She opens an opaque door and behind it is a fully stocked first aid room with a lot of physio equipment. I hadn't asked, but I'm glad to see it.

I spot my bag with my name and number on it—judging by the number of bags, I must be the last one to tour the arena—and I unzip the top to drag out my skates. There's a bench nearby, and it doesn't take me long to lace up. Once I'm done, I follow her down the long corridor, my skates digging into the pristine rubber coated flooring. Even just being on skates and walking toward the ice makes me feel more tethered to the here and now.

She opens one of the side doors, and I take a long stride out, the scratch of my skates on the fresh ice a balm to my frustration. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath of cool, crisp air, throwing my hands wide. Nothing better than this. Then I dig my skate into the ice and build speed as I fly around the perimeter of the rink. There are no nets out, so there's no need for a stick and a puck, but my hands feel empty without the weight of the wood clutched between them.

It's not long before I hear a loud beeping coming from Tamiko's area, and she opens the side door to call out to me.

"Time's up. We have to go, or we'll be late."

I come to a stop in front of her, expertly spraying the boards with shaved ice, missing the open door by inches.

"How's the ice?" she asks with a hint of a smile.

"Acceptable," I say as I trudge down the path to the locker rooms, already feeling the weight of the day settling back across my shoulders.

The half-formed plan I've been toying with to force a trade by the end of this season rises again. It's risky, and probably stupid, but the ideas keep looping around my mind, forming and re-forming, taunting me to take action. My career means everything to me, and being in Bellerive is, objectively, a misstep. Maybe even a step backwards.

We're not winning trophies here. Hell, we'll be lucky if anyone even remembers we could be a contender. No one I've spoken to here seems to understand hockey, let alone the World Hockey League, and it pisses me off that after everything I sacrificed to make it to this point in my career, I've been relegated to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, doomed to be forgotten.

I'm not sure when I'll come to accept my new circumstances in Bellerive. All I know is that I'm not there yet.

I'm going to try to consistently update once a week, occasionally twice. Anyone have a day they prefer?

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