“Mercer. Brooks. Line.”
My pulse spikes.
Tyler groans like a man walking to the gallows, dragging his ass toward the dot, sweat dripping down his face. I’m already there, stick in hand, lungs on fire but legs still holding.
Damian sweeps down the both of us.
“What’d I teach you last week?”
Tyler blinks, confused. I already know. My whole body knows, because I’ve been replaying every word, every drill, everyyes sirsince he drilled it into me.
“Show me,” Damian says.
No whistle. No countdown. Just that low command—and I’m gone.
I burst forward, blade snapping the puck off the dot before Tyler even realizes we’ve started. My shoulders drop, weight low, just like Damian barked at me a hundred times. My legs scream but I push harder, cutting fast across the blue line.
Tyler recovers, chasing, reaching with his stick. But I remember the spin Damian forced me through on repeat until I collapsed. I throw it out now, hips low, skates biting ice. Tyler bites on it hard. His stick whiffs empty space. I’m clear.
Shot—off the post.
The clang echoes through the arena, sharp as my ragged breath.
Damian doesn’t clap. Doesn’t nod. Just: “Again.”
Tyler tries harder the second time, shoulders braced, teeth grit. I feel the hit in my ribs when he slams into me—but I hold. Because Damian drilled it into me: don’t go down. Never go down. Take the hit, use the weight. I roll my shoulder, throw Tyler off-balance, snap the puck forward, fire.
This time—it’s in. Net ripples.
My lungs are fire, sweat stinging my eyes, but the only thing I see is Damian.
Watching.
Measuring.
Every nerve in me lights up when his lip curls faint.
“Good.”
It detonates through my chest. I’d skate suicides until my knees break just to hear it again.
“Brooks. Again.”
Tyler groans. The rest of the boys are leaning against the boards now, watching like it’s their favorite show.
And Damian keeps making us run it. Over and over. Every spin, every trick, every move he drilled into us last week—he wants it perfect now. Tyler pukes again. I keep skating.
Because I’ll prove it if it kills me.
“Stop.”
One word, and it shuts the rink down. My lungs are fire, Tyler’s doubled over with puke still burning his throat, and I swear Cole is seconds away from staging a dramatic faint on the blue line.
Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise his voice.
“Skates off. Gym. Now.”
Tyler actually whimpers. His helmet tilts forward like he’s about to cry. “Captain…please—”
