Coach starts talking about plays, drills, defensive structure—the usual. My mind drifts. The rink lights glare off the ice, turning it into a blinding mirror. I can still smell the sweat and the faint chemical burn of the Zamboni. My gloves are damp, my jaw tight.
We’re running a scrimmage next, red jerseys versus black. Miles and I end up on the same side. I tell myself I’ll focus, just get through practice. I keep my head down, eyes on the puck.
But then Miles laughs after I miss a pass.
“Jesus, Jamie,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear, “you better play better than you fu—”
I don’t even think—my stick drops, my gloves hit the ice, and I shove him back hard enough that he nearly topples.
“What did you say?” My voice comes out loud.
He grins, bloodthirsty, like he’s been waiting for this. “You heard me. You raced to get with her. Why? Worried that if she had a taste of me first, you wouldn’t have had a chance…”
I know he’s hurt. I know he’s lashing out. I should have a conversation with him. Instead all I can feel is pure fucking rage.
The next thing I know, my fist connects with his jaw. The sound is ugly, solid. He staggers, recovers, and comes right back at me.
We’re chaos. Sticks clatter. Someone yells my name, someone else swears. He grabs my jersey, I shove him again, and the two of us go down hard. Ice burns through my pads, and the world narrows to the white flash of his gloves and the copper taste of blood in my mouth as he punches me.
“Enough!” Coach’s voice cuts through everything.
Hands grab at us, pulling, separating. I’m breathing like I just skated a full period, chest heaving, heart pounding. Miles’ lip is split. I wipe my nose with the back of my glove and see the red smear.
Coach looks like he’s one second away from throwing both of us into the wall. “What the hell was that?”
“He started it,” Miles says, wiping at his mouth.
I glare at him. “Say it again. Go on.”
“Say what? That you—”
“Don’t,” Coach barks. “Not another damn word.”
Silence, heavy and taut. I can feel everyone watching. The scrape of skates, the cold hum of the rink lights.
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t afford this right now. You two want to kill each other, do it after the season.”
No one moves. My knuckles throb, blood running from my nose to my lip.
He sighs, muttering something under his breath. “As much as I’d like to bench you both, I can’t. Not with Ryan out.”
Someone—Cal or maybe Tanner—pipes up. “Wait, what happened to Ryan?”
Coach hesitates just long enough for everyone to go quiet again. “He got into a motorbike accident. Hit and run. Kid’s lucky to be alive but he’ll be on crutches for the next six weeks.”
A ripple of disbelief moves through the team. “You serious?” someone says.
“Six weeks?” another echoes.
I stand there, staring at the ice, the red drops near my skates bright against the white. My stomach turns.
Miles runs a hand through his hair. “How bad?”
“Bad enough,” Coach says. “Broke his leg in two places. He’ll be off skates till December, minimum.”
The guys start talking all at once—shock, concern, disbelief—but my mind is already spinning in another direction. Ryan’s careful. Always has been. Never pushes his luck off the ice. And yet somehow he ends up wrecked on a bike, out of nowhere.
My eyes flick to Miles. He’s standing there too calm, too collected, jaw clenched in that smug way he gets when he thinks no one’s watching.
