The ice is loud today.
Every stride, every stop, every puck hitting the boards feels amplified — like the arena itself is trying to drown out the noise in my head. Practice isn’t supposed to feel like punishment, but that’s what I’ve turned it into. Harder strides. Faster shifts. No breaks. If I can skate fast enough, maybe I can leave the static behind — the whispers, the headlines, the too-small apartment that smells like cinnamon and stress.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “Again!”
We circle back into the drill. Pass, pivot, shoot. My blade bites into the ice, slicing through the blue line. I take the shot — top right corner — and it clangs off the post instead. The sound rings out, sharp as a taunt.
Gabe skates past with a pat on my shoulder. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Just off my mark.” My lungs burn. My jaw aches from clenching too long.
“Off your mark three drills in a row.” He isn’t unkind, but he doesn’t need to be.
I glare, but he’s already gone, skating back into the rotation. He’s right, though. I know it. My body feels fine, my reflexes sharp, but something’s off — that half-second of hesitation between instinct and execution. I keep trying to push through it, and it keeps pushing back.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Voss, reset your timing!”
I nod, biting down on frustration. Reset. Like it’s that simple.
We go again. The puck slides down the ice; I chase, angle my stick for the pass — but it catches on the toe of my blade, skidding wide. Trevor Stein scoops it up, snickering. “Tough week, Captain?”
I don’t look at him. Just reset my stance. Again.
When practice finally ends, sweat slicks down my neck, my shoulders heavy with fatigue. I pull off my helmet and toss it into the bin with a little too much force. The clang echoes through the locker room.
A TV mounted in the corner replays highlights — not ours, just the daily sports coverage. But then I hear my name.
“…Leo Voss’s shooting percentage down seven points since the start of the month. Maybe the penthouse flood’s thrown him off balance. No home, no routine — hard to keep focus under that kind of pressure.”
My stomach twists. I don’t need to look, but I do anyway. The screen flashes my photo — the one from last week’s game, jaw tight, eyes shadowed under the helmet. The caption underneath reads:‘Captain Off His Game?’
I grab a towel and drag it over my face, muffling the sound of the segment. Doesn’t matter. The words are already lodged in my head.
Out on the ice, I can skate through anything. But in here — surrounded by cameras, whispers, and half-smirks — it feels like no matter how hard I push, I’m already losing ground.
Claire corners me before I finish unlacing my skates.
“Leo.” Her voice cuts through the locker-room chatter. The guys go quiet in that subtle, practiced way — not eavesdropping exactly, but close enough to catch every word.
She folds her arms, clipboard in hand, eyes like steel under her perfect PR smile. “We need to talk about the optics.”
I groan inwardly. “Claire?—”
“Don’t ‘Claire’ me.” Her tone sharpens. “You’ve seen the coverage. The flood, the move, the missed shots — it’s all feeding one narrative, and it’s not a good one. You know how this works.”
I lean back against my locker, towel draped around my neck. “I didn’t cause the damn flood.”
“No,” she says evenly, “but you can control what happens next. Answer less, not more. No color, no quotes they can spin. Smile when you have to, walk when you can. Let the story die on its own.”
“Sounds like your job.”
Her brow lifts. “It’s both our jobs if you want to keep the sponsors calm.”
That lands harder than I expect. I rub the back of my neck, muscles knotting tight. Claire isn’t cruel, just pragmatic. She’s been doing this longer than most players have been in the league. But the way she says it —keep the sponsors calm— makes me feel like a liability instead of a captain.
Trevor’s voice slices through the tension. “Maybe if you had a hotel bed instead of a couch, you’d be putting more pucks in the net.”
The room laughs — too loud, too quick. Gabe shoots him a look. “Shut it, Stein.”
