I force my shoulders back, inhale the cold air, and tell myself to dial in. Puck, stick, shot. Simple.
The puck slides toward me. Muscle memory takes over. I pull it in, set my feet, and rip it.
It clangs off the post with a hollow thud.
Dex groans loud enough to echo. “That bar is going to start charging you rent, man.”
Gabriel Shelly, gliding behind the net, snorts. “Relax. He is just giving Eli some ASMR.”
Eli taps his stick on the ice. “Five bucks to whoever can knock Blackhorn out of whatever bullshit fog he’s skating in and get him playing real hockey again.”
A few guys laugh. I try to laugh with them, but it comes out thin.
Coach Hale blows the whistle and skates toward the blue line. “All right, ladies, we are running rushes. Bryce, if you miss another wide open look, I am booking manicures for the team. ”
The guys howl.
"Stop playing like your chafed from your jock straps. Now, play like pros or we'll have a double practice today."
We run odd-man rushes, three on twos, then power play entries. My legs feel fine. My lungs burn the way they always do. But there is a fucked up buzz in my chest that will not quit.
Colby glides by and bumps my shoulder. “You are skating like Greg-man on his first day in juniors,” he says.
Gregory Mills, ahead of us in the drill, twists to glare. “Hey. I was majestic from day one.”
“Majestically confused,” Bobby says. He chips the puck off the glass and hustles after it.
We finish the last rep of rushes and finally, mercifully, Coach’s whistle blows in that long way that means we are done.
“All right, enough,” he says. “Hit the room. Hydrate. Ice baths if you need them. Bryce, marry the net again before tomorrow, yeah? I want to see some chemistry back in that relationship.”
The guys chuckle as we peel away toward the locker room.
Dex falls into step beside me as we step off the ice. “So,” he says, like he has been waiting this entire practice to bring it up, “how is the boss’s daughter?”
I unclip my helmet and pull it off, pushing wet hair back from my forehead. “She has a name, you know.”
“Annabelle,” Dex says promptly. “I know her name. I also know you have been playing like a man who watched The Notebook on repeat all night.”
Colby snorts. “He looks more like someone whose dog ran away and then came back with a better looking owner.”
I frown at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you look tragic, man,” Eli chimes in from behind us. “Like a country song.”
We flood into the locker room in a wave of skates and gear. The familiar smell of sweat, rubber and cheap body wash hits me. Someone hooks their phone up to the speaker and music starts pumping. Sticks thump into racks. Pads drop to the floor.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and start peeling off layers. My legs are aching, my shoulders throbbing, but the rest of me feels oddly hollow.
Dex sits beside me, towel around his neck, still in his base layer. Colby takes the other side. Gabe, Bobby, Gregory, and Eli hover close, like some kind of intervention circle.
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
Dex blinks innocently. “No, what?”
“Whatever this is, I am not doing it.”
“It’s support,” Gabe says, grinning. “You look like you need it.”
