Top shelf. Glove side. The puck hits the back of the net with that perfectpingof rubber on metal, and I’m already turning away before Thompson can even process what happened.
“Fucking hell, Kane!” Jenkins pants as he skates past.
I don’t respond. Just circle back to center ice for another drill.
Coach stands at the boards, clipboard in hand, whistle hanging from his neck. He’s been watching me like a hawk since I came back four days ago—checking to make sure the “family emergency” that took me out for a week didn’t break something essential.
But I’m not broken.
I’m sharper than I’ve ever been.
“Again!” Coach barks. “Defense, actually try this time!”
The team groans but lines up. We’ve been at this for ninety minutes already, running drills until our legs burn and our lungs scream. But I could do this for hours. The ice is the only place that makes sense right now, the only place where the rules are clear, and violence is not just acceptable but celebrated.
Out here, I can hit someone and it’s strategy.
Out here, I can draw blood and get a penalty instead of a life sentence.
The whistle blows again and I’m moving, reading the play before it develops. I intercept a pass meant for our second line center, pivot hard enough to spray ice, and take off down the wing. Two guys on me now—good, I want the pressure.
I accelerate, feeling the burn in my quads, the pull in my injured ribs that I’m ignoring because pain is just information and this information doesn’t matter. What matters is the puck, the net, the perfect angle of approach.
I deke right, go left, and bury it five-hole.
“Jesus Christ,” someone mutters.
Coach blows the whistle three times—practice over. “Hit the showers! Koa, my office. Now.”
I skate to the bench, breathing hard but not tired. Could go another hour easy. My teammates are doubled over, gasping, but I feel alive in a way I haven’t since before the warehouse.
Maybe violence is violence, whether it’s sanctioned or not.
Coach’s office smells like Cheetos. He sits behind his desk and gestures for me to sit. I don’t. Just lean against the doorframe, stick still in hand.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks, cutting straight to it.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” He leans back in his chair. “You’ve been gone a week with some vague family emergency, you come back looking like you went ten rounds with a heavyweight, and now you’re playing like...” He waves his hand, searching for words. “Like you’re trying to prove something.”
“I’m always trying to prove something.”
“Not like this.” His eyes narrow. “You were good before. Now you’re... mean. Faster. Like you’re exorcising ghosts out there.”
The word hits too close. I keep my face neutral. “Just focused.”
“Focused.” He doesn’t believe me. “That what we’re calling it?”
“Is there something you wanted, Coach? Or can I shower?”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Blackridge is coming up next week. Friday night. Home game.”
My blood spikes instantly. The stick in my hand creaks as my grip tightens.
Blackridge.
Revan. Atticus.
