I collide with the boards after a sprint, the hit sending a jolt up my side. It stings—but in a good way. Pain means I’m still here. Still moving. Still not thinking.
When the whistle finally blows for a break, I skate toward the bench, head down. Coach meets me halfway, hand clapping down hard on my shoulder.
“Whatever’s eating you, fix it before it eats the team,” he mutters. His voice isn’t angry—just tired. “You’re one bad shift away from losing the room, Voss.”
I nod because there’s nothing else to do. No excuse that won’t sound hollow.
He studies me for a second longer. “You got a fire, kid. Don’t let it burn the wrong people.”
Then he’s gone, barking at the next line. I stand there, chest tight, watching the ice reflect the lights above like fractured glass.
Fire. Yeah. That’s one word for it.
The problem is, I’m starting to think I don’t know how to stop it from spreading.
The locker room smells like sweat, rubber, and damp gear—familiar, grounding, and suddenly unbearable. Helmets clatter into cubbies, laughter bounces off the walls, and the sound of a few sticks slapping together echoes through the space. Normal noise. Normal day. But not for me.
I sit in front of my locker, still in half my gear, staring at the floor. A pair of skates dangles from the bench across from me. Someone tosses a roll of tape that bounces off my shoulder.
“Hey, Voss,” Jensen says. “You ever think of taking up boxing? Might suit you better.”
The room erupts in snickers. Someone adds, “He’s already got the press for it.”
The tape roll rolls to my feet. I pick it up, grip tightening until the plastic warps. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.
“Enough,” Nolan says from across the room. His tone is calm but edged. “You idiots done?”
Jensen shrugs, muttering something under his breath, but the laughter dies off.
I drop the tape into my bag, trying to breathe through the pulse pounding in my temples. One wrong word, one wrong look, and I’ll make things worse. I know it. But the restraint feels like choking.
Coach’s voice cuts through from the doorway. “Team meeting tomorrow morning. Film at eight. Don’t be late.” He pauses when his gaze hits me, and something in his expression shifts. “You hear me, Voss?”
I nod once. “Yeah, Coach.”
He lingers a beat longer, then moves on. The chatter starts back up immediately, like the tension never happened.
By the time the room empties, the quiet feels louder than the noise ever did. I take my time peeling off my gear, each piece feeling heavier than the last. My chest aches, not from skating, but from the weight of everything pressing down—expectations, guilt, Sage’s voice in my head from last night:You’re gonna destroy everything that’s real.
She’s right.
When I finally shoulder my bag and push out into the hallway, the cool air hits me like a slap. I expect the corridor to be empty.
But Anya’s there, leaning against the wall with her press badge tucked into her jacket pocket. The recorder isn’t in her hand. For once, her expression isn’t sharp or curious—it’s soft. Concerned.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “You okay?”
The words catch me off guard. Notwhat happened?orwhat’s the story?Just—you okay?
I blink. “You off the record now?”
She smiles faintly. “I can be.”
I don’t answer right away. My throat tightens. The walls, the ice, the noise—it all blurs for a second.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She studies me, then nods slowly. “If you ever want to tell someone the truth, not the headline—my number hasn’t changed.”
