It makes something in my chest go quiet. Safe.
And I’m so fucked for it.
Two days back in Ravensburg, and the walls already feel too clean.
Locker room smells like it always does—sweat, damp tape, the sharp sting of ammonia from the laundry bins. Vets sprawled in their stalls, tying skates with the kind of slow ease only years in the league give you. Rookies loud as hell, chirping each other like the world’s not about to end when I blow the whistle.
And Elias.
My rookie.
Perched in his stall like his whole body’s running on static. Grinning too wide at Cole’s latest jab, throwing it back fast enough to keep anyone from seeing the twitch in his knee. He still limps when he thinks no one’s looking. He still shifts wrong, sore from the storm and the SUV and my hand in his curls. He thinks he hides it. He doesn’t.
They all saw. Two nights ago, outside the arena—Cole’s red convertible waiting, Elias halfway there, and my hand on the back of his neck pulling him clean into my SUV instead. Nota word spoken. Not a word needed. Everyone knew what it meant.
And no one’s said a damn thing since.
The vets aren’t stupid. They’ve seen me break men for less than what Elias gives me willingly. They know better than to poke.
So the air’s sharp with silence beneath the noise. Everyone feels it. They just don’t want to bleed for it.
Coach used to run this room. Back when I was twenty and mean, before the C burned its way into my chest. But the man’s a ghost now. He still shows up with his clipboard and his growl, still smokes cigars like his lungs aren’t rotten, but everyone knows whose voice they’re listening for. Whose drills break them down until they puke, whose orders they’ll crawl through glass to follow.
Mine.
Because I’m better at it. Because I don’t just train them—I carve them into weapons. And yeah, the boys call me a sadist for it. They’re right. I enjoy watching them break, watching them stagger and sweat and vomit into the bins. Because every time they do, they come back harder.
The vets already know. They don’t need me to scream at them. They skate until their lungs collapse without asking. So when I drill, I drill the ones who don’t know yet. The ones who need breaking.
Tyler. Insecure. Weak. Always puffing up like he’s got something to prove. I’ll rip that arrogance out of him before it gets him killed on ice.
And Elias. Reckless. Too much fire, not enough control. Cocky enough to poke the devil, obedient enough to kneel for me the second I tighten the leash.
So naturally, I skate him the hardest.
The whistle’s cold between my teeth. The sound cuts the room in half. Conversations die. Laces pause. Sticks still.
“On the ice.”
They know what it means. No drill sheet, no warm-up skate, no slow start. It’s me. It’s punishment disguised as training. It’s hell waiting to happen.
The rookies groan. But Elias—he’s already moving.
Helmet snapped down, mouthguard between his teeth, skates pounding on the floor as he follows me out first. Grin cocky, eyes too bright, pulse hammering under skin he thinks I can’t see through.
He wants it.
He hates it.
He wants it anyway.
I’m going to give it to him until his legs collapse.
The whistle cracks.
Skates cut across the fresh sheet, boys circling up mid-ice. Cole’s already groaning loud enough for the rafters to hear. Shane mutters something about death curses. Tyler looks like he’s going to piss himself. Elias grins.
“Suicides,” I bark.
