Miscalculations
Jason
Edges bite,lungs burn. I skate until the rink blurs at the corners, as if speed could outrun the noise. Ducks has us running punishment laps disguised as conditioning—goal line to blue, back to red, turn, again. The boys grumble in a chorus; I keep quiet and push harder. Noise can’t catch a man who won’t stop.
Every pivot throws her silence back at me. Corner—Riley not answering. Straightaway—herlaterthinning to a thread. Turn—her voice last night in the dark, steady and small,it’s nothing, like a dam about to crack.
My wrist complains under the tape, scar tissue grinding like sand. I let it. Pain is a fence; I know how to skate the boards.
“Full stop!” Ducks’ whistle splits the cold. We line at the red, chests heaving steam. The rink smells like snow and new shavings, that clean metallic promise you only get from ice that’s been cut and made whole again.
Kitson leans on his stick, still catching breath. “You done being a headline?” he pants.
“Work in progress,” I say, pretending my lungs aren’t on fire.
Ducks chews the cigar he never lights. “Systems reset in ten,” he barks. “Special teams after. Heads on hockey—nothing else. Anyone who wants to be famous can buy a billboard.” The boys laugh because laughing is easier than bleeding.
We break to corners for drills. I run cycles with the second unit until my hands remember what they’re good for—receive, fake, dish. Hunt, recover, rim. Yesterday, rhythm dulled the chatter. Today the chatter finds cracks. She said we’d talk tonight. Tonight is a continent away, and I’ve never been patient on long flights.
Whistle. Ducks corrals us mid-ice, scribbling a diagram that squeaks across the glass. “Last rep,” he says, eyes locking on me like a target. “Then showers. Then pretend we’re monks until puck drop.”
We run it clean. The puck kisses tape; the shot pings bar-in, that perfect metallic note that sounds like relief. The horn blats for no reason, but the building feels like being loud. I coast to the bench, palms on the boards, wrist throbbing in time with the scoreboard clock that’s still half a second slow. Breathing eases. The noise doesn’t.
I’m not outrunning anything. Just skating circles around something that won’t move.
The hallway outside the room is a wind tunnel of damp gear and muttered curses. I’ve got one glove off and a helmet line on my forehead when Julia intercepts like a veteran defenseman—angled body, tablet in hand, eyes sharp.
“Walk,” she orders. I follow; fighting her in public is a luxury we can’t afford.
She pulls me into the video room. The projector hums to life—TIMELINE — SOURCED MATERIAL—a wall of thumbnails: me in tunnels, hotel lobbies, shadows. Riley’s ponytail caught like evidence.
“They’ve got a deck,” Julia says flatly. “Bench-side clip, your hand near her elbow. Elevator still, timestamped too close. Same night, lobby shot. They’re packaging rumor like proof.”
Next slide. A red bar snakes across a calendar. “They grafted the old training-room photo—year one—onto this. You, taped wrist. Her laughing. They’re calling ityears-long entanglement.”
I taste metal. “Sounds like a bad album.”
“They’re not selling records. They’re selling doubt.” She flicks again: sponsor logos, bullet points, numbers that look like blood pressure. “Fines up to two-fifty. Morals clauses. Clawbacks. League watching. Nolan calculating.”
Julia exhales through her nose. “Abstract just went lethal. I’ve got counsel drafting a protocol memo thick enough to stop a bullet, but if they get one cleaner shot?—”
“They don’t have one.”
“They don’t need one. Just enough blur to fill a chyron.” She kills the projector; the room exhales. “Tell me you’re not going to hand them something because your chest hurts.”
I rub my taped wrist until the ache steadies. “I’m not giving them anything,” I say. “But I’m done letting other people write the story.”
She looks half proud, half terrified. “Coach called a media blackout. No quotes until after morning skate.”
“I’ll honor hockey,” I answer. “But I’m not letting them turn competence into scandal.”
Julia’s smile is quick and pained. “Fine. We’ll keep saying her name next tocompetenceuntil the algorithm gets bored.” Her phone vibrates. “Coach wants you in the room. And, Jason—no heroics.”
Ducks’ voice hits the hall before I do. “Phones down, mouths shut. Media blackout. If I see a camera light and your lips moving, you’re bag-skating in the lot.”
The room erupts in nervous laughter. Helmets thunk. The air smells like sweat and detergent and something that could break.
“Especially you, Maddox,” Ducks growls. “You’ve said enough.”
