But Alexei understood my . . . quirks. He discovered my weaknesses on the ice but never used them against me.
Thought Viktor told him my secret, but neither would confirm how Alexei figured out I had problems with my hand or reading body language. Unlike his cousin, he never pushed to understand where or why I had those weaknesses. Instead, he adapted, and we worked together.
But Henneman? He's hiding something. He’s too skittish, too hypervigilant in the lockerroom.
After throwing out the peel, I walk back to my stall and start putting on my equipment. “Novy, you check the feed?”
Wanting to fuck with Merci, I left him alone all day yesterday, letting the isolation fuck with his head—the same way it fucked with mine when I sat in the hospital room after each surgery. Besides the video feed in the warehouse, Viktor also placed a guard on the premises.
And injected him with a tracker, just in case Merci manages to escape.
“Yup.”
After attaching the Velcro strap of my elbow pad, I turn and look at him. “And?”
He chuckles, the sound dark and amused. "Pissed himself. Having your hands bound behind you makes bathroom breaks difficult, I guess."
“He deserves it.” But even as I speak the words, something grinds in my chest, an unfamiliar sensation that makes me want to tear my skin off.
It’s not guilt, that feeling I recognize, even if it takes me weeks to name it. But something about how Merci flinched in the warehouse—the thought of someone else hurting him—got under my skin.
I want to be the one who punishes him.
Me.
No one else should touch him.
It makes no sense. These feelings . . . they’re a waste. Inefficient. Unnecessary.
After pulling on my jersey, I grab my helmet and stick.
"Do you really want to kill him?" Jackson’s voice is low, careful as he tightens his laces.
"Yes."
"Then why haven't you already?"
Instead of answering, I walk out of the locker room and head to the ice, where everything makes sense. The rules are clear, the objectives defined. No messy emotions to interpret, no social cues to miss.
I tap my stick once against the boards as I step onto the ice, the ritual grounding me. Nothing else matters when I’m out here.
Only winning.
I focus on warming up as my teammates step onto the ice. My left hand is stiffer today. I flex my fingers inside my glove, trying to work out the perpetual numbness. While I can't always feel the stick properly, I’ve compensated by relying more on positioning. But some days, I wonder if that’ll be enough in the NHL.
Being drafted is one thing, but how long can I hide my limitations? And if the organization finds out, what then?
My molars grind. This is Merci’s fucking fault.
He added to the obstacles I already had.
I don’t know much about how my brain got injured—don’t remember a thing. But the insular cortex damage was static, and the long-term effects were stable.
Luckily, reading plays in hockey often relies more on recognizing patterns, anticipating movements, and understanding the flow of the game rather than interpreting subtle emotional cues.
And while the insular cortex is involved in social and emotional processing, other brain areas, like the visual cortex and motor planning regions, play a more significant role in athletic performance and spatial awareness.
So, my father hired trainers to help me recognize specific formations, opponent tendencies, and positional play. He also made them sign NDAs to keep their mouth shut about my medical condition.
