There’s a sticky note stuck to the corner. Block letters, black ink:
Thought you’d want this gone.
No signature. No context. The implication does the talking. Someone knows exactly where to press.
For a breath I can’t decide whether to tear the photo in half or press it flat to my chest. Instead, I slide it back into the envelope with hands that don’t feel like mine and shove it into the back corner of the locker—behind the extra hoodie, behind the binder I never use. Hiding isn’t erasing, but it’s the only verb I have.
The trainers’ room hums outside the row of lockers—voices, the thunk of a door, the whine of a cart. I sit on the bench because my knees forget what standing is. My palm is damp where the gloss touched it. I wipe it on my pants and hate the shake that lingers.
Who left it? Miles wouldn’t. Jessie wouldn’t. Julia doesn’t do anonymous. Danvers? The thought turns my stomach. A player? A staffer with a long memory and a short fuse? The list blooms and keeps blooming until it sours. Paranoia is a luxury I can’t afford and a necessity I can’t escape.
My phone pings from the bottom drawer where I buried it. Another dragonfly buzz through wood. I don’t move.
It pings again, this time the calendar chime, bright and tidy like good news.
I stand because standing is an act of defiance, pull the drawer, and unlock the screen. The notification blooms across the top in clean league font, as if fonts can’t be weapons:
Compliance Interview — UPDATED TIME
Tomorrow, 7:00 AM
Location: Admin 4B (Recording Enabled)
Note: Please bring team-issued phone for device review.
The words tilt the floor.Device reviewmeans messages, photos, call logs—the digital echo of everything I’ve ever told myself I kept professional. The drawer feels suddenly too small, my phone too loud, the envelope in my locker too close to everything they might ask about.
I lock the screen like that could lock the day back into order and press it to my sternum. My heart knocks once, hard, then starts a new rhythm that feels like running out onto thin ice.
I slide the phone into my pocket, shut the locker, and lay my palm against the cool metal as if I can press secrets deeper by osmosis.
“Okay,” I tell no one, and the word fogs in front of my mouth like winter.
Chapter 16
Flashpoint
Jason
Glass,steel, sky. The owner’s suite floats above the arena like a knife laid on velvet. Floor-to-ceiling panes throw the city at me—billboards blinking, traffic veining red, a winter moon cut thin enough to bleed. My jaw aches from holding my mouth shut. Security eases the door closed behind me with a click that sounds like a lock.
Nolan Blackwood doesn’t stand. He never has to. He’s a perfect silhouette against the skyline—silver hair, dark suit, a watch that could pay a rookie’s mortgage. A single tumbler of something expensive sweats on the glass table beside him. The TV in the corner plays our win on loop without sound; a slow-motion version of me ghosts across the screen, five-hole tuck, stick raised. It feels like someone else’s life.
“Jason.” He says my name like a ledger entry—neutral, inevitable.
“Coach said you wanted me.” My voice stays even. I plant my feet on the ridiculously soft carpet and keep my hands where hecan see them, like this is a traffic stop and not a conversation with the man who signs my checks.
Nolan gestures at the opposite chair. I don’t sit. Sitting is for negotiations. I’m not here to negotiate.
Down on the ice, the crew drives a Zamboni in neat, obedient laps. I think about how clean the surface looks after you scrape the evidence away. I think about Riley’s badge flashing red. My molars grind.
“We’ll be brief,” Nolan says. His reflection looks at mine in the glass; neither of us blink. “There are optics to manage.”
“Then manage me,” I say. The words feel like stepping onto fresh ice—slick, no take-backs. “Not my trainer.”
One silver brow tilts. “Your trainer.” He lets the pronoun hang just long enough to make a point. “You’re aware of the Code of Conduct.”
“I’m aware of results.” I bite down on the rest. Not yet. Not until he makes me earn it.
