When the puck finds my stick again, I take the shot without thinking. It hits the top shelf and snaps against the back.
Logan whoops, pumping his fist. “Knew you still had it!”
“Guess I just needed a decent teammate,” I chirp back.
He skates a slow circle around me, grin full of mischief. “Decent? You wound me, Shaw.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll keep you humble.”
“Unlikely.”
I bump him with my shoulder as I glide past. “Worth a shot.”
He bumps me back, light but solid. “You’re such an ass.”
“Yeah, but I’m your favorite one.”
He laughs, the sound carrying across the rink, bright and alive.
By the time Coach calls the next break, we’re both breathless and grinning, and something deep in my chest finally settles. The heaviness, the doubt, the noise—it’s all still there, but quieter now. Manageable.
Because this—him, the ice, the sound of our laughter blending with the scrape of blades—is what it’s supposed to feel like.
When Coach blows the final whistle, the rink hums with a different kind of energy. Lighter. Easier.
He doesn’t have to say anything—just gives us a nod that says,That’s the team I know.
As we skate off, the guys are all smiles and chirps, sticks tapping the boards in an unspoken rhythm that feels a lotlike approval. The weight that’s been sitting on my shoulders since the break starts to lift.
Inside the locker room, the air smells like sweat, ice, and cheap soap. Everyone’s talking at once—retelling plays, razzing each other, laughing too loud. The sound fills the space in a way it didn’t after yesterday’s practice.
Daniel’s the first to shout across the room. “Hey, Shawsy, good to have your grumpy ass back!”
“Didn’t realize I’d left,” I shoot back, tossing a towel at him.
He catches it, grinning. “You were here, but your head was on another planet.”
“Yeah, well, it found its way back,” Logan says from across the room, pulling his jersey over his head. “Took some coaxing, though.”
“Coaxing?” I echo, arching a brow. “Pretty sure you were just loud enough to annoy me back into shape.”
Peter laughs from his cubby beside Daniel’s. “That tracks. Brooks never shuts up unless he’s asleep.”
“Whatever works,” Logan says, smirking.
Eli, perched on the bench unlacing his goalie pads, shakes his head. “You two back to normal, then?”
Logan and I trade a look that says more than either of us could explain.
“Something like that,” I say.
Blue, who’s been taping his stick handle in the corner, grins without looking up. “Good. You were both unbearable when you weren’t talking.”
Daniel nods solemnly. “Facts. The tension was killing team morale.”
Peter grins. “Yeah, it was like living in the world’s gayest soap opera.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I’m smiling as I say it.
