My dad was a huge help. He told me that it's going to be

Host: The ice rink was empty, except for the echo of skates gliding softly over the frozen surface. The lights hung low, buzzing faintly, casting a cold, silver hue across the arena. A flag fluttered high above — blue, white, red — foreign, yet familiar.

Jack stood at the center line, leaning on a hockey stick, his breath visible in the chill air. His grey eyes tracked the puck lying near the goalpost, as if studying not the object, but the distance between memory and ambition.

From the bench, Jeeny watched him, her hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee, steam rising into the cold light. Her expression was soft, but her voice, when she spoke, carried through the empty rink with quiet strength.

Jeeny: “Leon Draisaitl once said his father told him — ‘It’s going to be different going to North America. It’s a different game, a different style.’ You ever think about that, Jack? How change feels like foreign ice under your feet?”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Different game, different ice. Same pain when you fall.”

Host: The sound of his skates scraped across the rink, sharp, controlled, as if he was cutting through his own thoughts.

Jeeny: “You think that’s all it is? Pain? Maybe it’s growth, Jack. Maybe new ice makes you learn a new way to move.”

Jack: (dryly) “Or maybe it just reminds you that you’re not home anymore.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the doors, carrying with it the scent of cold metal and nostalgia. The arena lights dimmed slightly, and the world seemed to contract into that small, white circle of ice.

Jeeny: “You talk like change is punishment. But look at Draisaitl — he left, he adapted, he thrived. His father’s words weren’t a warning, they were a gift. Guidance, not fear.”

Jack: (sets the stick down, looks up) “You ever notice how everyone who leaves calls it growth, and everyone who stays calls it loyalty? Maybe both are just ways to make peace with loss.”

Jeeny: “Loss of what?”

Jack: “Of place, of belonging, of that voice that once told you what to do, who to be. You cross an ocean, Jeeny, and you don’t just learn a new style of hockey — you learn how to be alone.”

Host: The silence after his words was like the moment before a puck drop — tense, weighted, full of expectation. The light glinted off the ice, splintering across Jack’s face, revealing not coldness, but something softer — longing, perhaps, or memory.

Jeeny: (quietly) “He wasn’t alone, Jack. That’s the point. He said, ‘My whole family was really supportive.’ He didn’t just have talent, he had roots — even when he was far away. Maybe that’s why he succeeded.”

Jack: “And what if you don’t have that? What if support is a luxury some people never knew?”

Jeeny: (stands, walks closer) “Then you build it. You find it in friends, in teammates, in the people who believe in you when you can’t. No one survives change alone, Jack — not even the greats.”

Host: The echo of her steps on the ice was gentle, but steady. She stood beside him now, small, still, her presence like a steadying hand in a storm.

Jack: (after a pause) “When I first came here, I thought adaptation meant becoming someone else. Changing your language, your tone, your rhythm, until no one hears the accent anymore.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s about keeping the accent, but learning how to speak louder.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes brightened — that kind of light that comes not from victory, but from understanding.

Jeeny: “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t erase where you came from — you carry it into what you’re becoming. That’s what Leon meant when he said his family helped him. They didn’t hold him back — they anchored him.”

Jack: (softly) “Anchors can hold, or they can weigh you down.”

Jeeny: “Only if you forget to sail.”

Host: The words hung between them, sharp and gentle, like a slap that also heals. Jack laughed, a low, cracked sound that echoed against the walls.

Jack: “You really think support is what makes people great?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s what keeps them human.”

Host: He looked at her for a long time, then at the rink, where the puck still rested, waiting. Slowly, he skated forward, his movements smoother now, rhythmic, like memory rediscovered.

Jeeny watched him glide, the sound of steel on ice singing through the arena. The cold had softened, replaced by the heat of motion and resolve.

Jack: (calling out) “You ever wonder what drives someone to cross oceans for a dream?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Not ambition. Belief. And maybe the voice of a father, somewhere in the back of your mind, telling you — ‘It’s going to be different… but you’ll make it.’”

Host: He stopped skating, leaning on the stick, looking down at his reflection in the ice — fragmented, but clear enough to recognize.

Jack: (softly) “Different ice. Same heart.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lights in the arena shifted, warming to a golden tone, as if the night itself had relented. Jack and Jeeny stood in the center, surrounded by stillness — not of emptiness, but of completion.

The camera would have pulled back now — widening the frame to capture the expanse of ice, the echo of footsteps, the slow drift of snowflakes outside the glass.

In that quiet, one could almost hear the echo of a father’s voice, carried across oceans and years:

“It will be different. But you’ll learn. You’ll find your way.”

And in the reflection of the rink’s light, the truth stood clear — that every journey, no matter how foreign, is survivable, if the heart remembers where it began.