Guy Gaudreau finds his truest peace deep in the Vermont woods, walking among the maple trees on the land he bought from his father. It's in those quiet, solitary moments that the ache feels just a little more manageable. But when life slows down, when the distractions fade, the hollow feelings creep back in.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to be doing," he says. "I know how I feel. Every second that I'm idle is not good. It's difficult."
It has been a year and eight months since that devastating August night in 2024, when a tragedy no parent should ever face struck the Gaudreau family. Their sons, John and Matthew, were killed while biking together in Oldmans Township, New Jersey, just hours before their sister's wedding. The joy of a family celebration turned into an unimaginable loss that continues to echo through every corner of their lives.
John—known to hockey fans everywhere as Johnny Hockey—was an NHL star whose dazzling skill lit up rinks from Calgary to Columbus. Matthew, equally talented on the ice, was carving out his own path in coaching after a standout college career at Boston College. Both brothers shared a love for the game that started on backyard rinks and never faded.
They were struck by an SUV driven by Sean Higgins, who remains in custody facing multiple charges. The pending trial keeps the wound painfully fresh for the Gaudreau family, who follow every development closely.
Even moments that should bring pure joy carry a shadow now. When the U.S. men's hockey team defeated Canada to win Olympic gold in Milan this February, Guy and Jane were there, courtesy of USA Hockey. They sat alongside John's wife, Meredith, and their grandchildren, watching as U.S. players proudly displayed John's No. 13 jersey in the locker room. It was a tribute that moved them deeply—but the empty seat where their son should have been was impossible to ignore.
Still, Guy finds strength in staying busy. He skates when he can, spends time with family, and even keeps up with what he calls "sugaring"—tapping maple trees on that Vermont land to make syrup. It's a simple, honest tradition passed down through generations, and it helps fill the quiet spaces that grief tries to claim.
"I just keep moving," he says. "That's all you can do."