“Better,” Coach called.
Yeah. Better. The noise was still there. Not a distraction. A signal?
I slammed my stick against each post. Enough screwing around.
“Stay locked in,” I muttered into my mask.
Next rush, I was there before the shot left the stick. Pads sealed, rebound kicked wide. A couple more stops came fast. My edges dug deeper, body snapping into saves.
The guys hooted, Ryder thumping me on the helmet as he skated past.
Next rep, I tracked the puck clean through traffic, glove snapping it out of the air. Mac’s chirp died halfway out of his mouth. I tossed him the puck. “Here, try again. Maybe aim for the net this time, not my glove.”
A couple guys tapped their sticks. “Atta boy, Cal.”
The rhythm snapped back into place. Feet silent, eyes locked in, every rebound mine. The chaos in my head gave way to the order of the crease. Whatever had been rattling around up there had helped me turn up my focus.
I came in from practice still carrying the weight of the early drills. The start had been rough, sloppy reads, too many rebounds, but it had sharpened as the skate went on. Better footing, cleaner angles. Not good enough, though. Never good enough.
I had time before dinner to look at the practice film. I went into the office and hooked my laptop into the screen, settled on the couch, and let the footage roll.
There I was, blown up in brutal detail. Every move, every twitch of hesitation, the camera didn’t let anything slide. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, remote in hand. Rewound. Watched again. A glove save that should’ve been smoother. A rebound I chased too late.
The glow of the screen lit the room harsh and white, and I kept replaying the same thirty seconds, jaw tight, shoulders locked. Practice had ended hours ago, but I was still in it, frame by frame.
I clicked the screen dark and leaned back, letting the silence swallow the room. Still picturing the drills in my head and what I needed to work on.
That’s when I saw something in the printer tray on the side table. I almost ignored it, but something in the way the paper sat half-askew made me push up from the couch.
I tugged it free. Not junk.
A list. Apartment addresses, square footage, rent, everything color coded.
My throat went dry.
She hadn’t said a word. Not about looking. Not about leaving.
The pages blurred for a second before I tightened my grip, forced the words into focus. Midtown. Upper West. One even near the arena. She wasn’t just browsing. She had options, plans.
My stomach dropped, the floor tilting under me.
It was too familiar. The suddenness. The blindsiding. One day, Nora had been here. And then she wasn’t. A car, a call, a funeral. No warning. Just gone.
My breath hitched, sharp and shallow.
This isn’t the same.
Why can’t I convince my body it’s not the same? My chest seized like it had a decade ago.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my sternum, but it did nothing. The paper crinkled in my other fist, edges cutting into my skin.
She was already halfway out the door. I hadn’t even seen it coming.
I shoved the page back into the tray like it burned, backed away a step, then two. My jaw locked tight, the air in the room heavy and thin all at once.
Dinner didn’t matter anymore. Neither did film.
I needed distance. Walls. Anything between me and the possibility of watching another person walk away without warning.
