Around me, someone cackled—probably Kellen—and Asher launched into some absurd story about a haunted vending machine in a Saskatchewan arena. I tuned them out. Every tug of tape brought me back to center. When I was finished, I flipped the stick once in my hands, tested the weight. Ready. I slid on my jersey, tugged the laces tight at the collar. This was the part where the switch flipped—where I stopped being the man who made her coffee this morning and became the Reaper again. Only now, maybe the two weren’t so different.
I leaned forward, tightening the laces on my skates with practiced precision. Left first, always—double knot at the top, firm but not cutting off circulation. The boot creaked slightly as I flexed my ankle, checking the tension. Satisfied, I repeated the process on the right, then leaned back, letting the cold from the floor seep into my bones while I ran a hand through my hair. The rest of the team still buzzed like hornets around me, but my head was already on the ice.
Stepping through the tunnel onto the rink, I inhaled deep. The familiar blast of cold hit me first, then the sharper scent of fresh ice—clean, untouched, waiting. My blades touched down with that familiar crunch, and I pushed off, gliding effortlessly into the wide, open space. The arena lights shimmered off the surface, casting reflections that danced beneath me. It was quiet for now, just the echo of steel on ice and the low murmur of early warm-ups.
I picked up speed slowly, testing my edges, weaving between cones like it was instinct. It was. Each stride stretched out the tension in my legs, my body syncing with the rhythm I knew better than breathing. A few of the guys joined me, calling out to each other, but I stayed silent, locked into the glide. The ice didn’t care about what happened outside this rink. It didn’t ask questions. It gave back exactly what I put in. And right now, all I wanted was that clean, cutting silence—and maybe a reason to skate a little harder than usual.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement—up in the stands. I didn’t need to look long to know who it was. Mina, bundled in one of her cardigans, sleeves too long, fingers barely visible as they curled around a cup that was probably hot chocolate. Her legs swung slightly where she sat, like she couldn’t sit still even if she tried. She looked small in the sea of empty seats, but somehow brighter than all of them combined.
When she spotted me, her face lit up like I’d just scored a hat trick. She raised her cup in greeting, then gave a little wave with her free hand, eyes crinkling with that sunshine smile that knocked the breath out of me more effectively than a shoulder to the ribs.
My lips twitched, almost a smile, but I didn’t wave back.
Not here.
Not now.
I had a reputation to maintain. But the fact that she was here, watching, was suddenly all I could think about.
I didn’t understand it—how Mikel had spent so long trying to hide her like she was some kind of secret. Something inconvenient.
Embarrassing.
I looked at her again, her nose pink from the cold, her messy bun slipping out of place, and felt something twist low in my gut. He’d had this—her—and still threw it away like it meant nothing.
If it had been me back then… I wouldn’t have hidden her. I’d have made damn sure the whole world saw her standing beside me.
Coach Bennett’s whistle sliced through the chill, sharp and commanding. Like clockwork, we all broke from warmup skating and coasted over to the bench. Blades hissed against the ice as we circled in, sticks tapping against shin pads, a few stray laughs still trailing from the last round of chirping. The second Bennett raised the clipboard, though, silence fell. He didn’t demand it—we just knew better.
He stood tall in his puffer jacket, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his cap, and looked at each of us like he could see every move we hadn’t made yet.
“We’ve got three days until Toronto,” he started, voice low but firm, with that same gravel-smooth tone that could both motivate and intimidate. “You’ve got a good record behind you, but that won’t mean shit when they show up with fresh legs and faster hands. So today, we tighten everything.” He pointed toward the far end of the ice. “Breakouts, neutral zone movement, aggressive forechecking. You know the drill.”
He flicked his pen toward the whiteboard now clipped to the side of the bench, walking us through the structure for the next hour like he was orchestrating a military operation.
No wasted time.
No wasted breath.
Just clean systems, smart passes, and skating until your legs burned.
Around me, guys nodded, a few exchanged determined looks, but my eyes flicked once more to the stands before I forced myself to focus. Bennett wasn’t one for second chances, and if you weren’t dialed in, he’d let you know fast.
The second Bennett blew the whistle again, I was off. First drill—breakouts. Simple enough, but not if your mind wandered. I dropped low, collected the puck clean off the boards, pivoted, and sent a crisp pass up the ice to Weston, who took off down the wing like a freight train. We moved in synchronized chaos, each piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
I didn’t have to think—my body knew what to do.
But my mind?
That kept wanting to drift up to the stands.
I forced my focus back.
Puck control drills came next.
Tight turns around cones, weaving through pylons like they were defenders on the hunt. I dropped my shoulder, cut sharp, and shifted the puck from forehand to backhand without missing a beat.
The sound of my blade slicing into the ice grounded me, each pass of steel through cold bringing me back to the moment.
