A sloppy goal.
I slam my stick against the iron, disgust ripping through me. The vibration climbs into my palms, up my forearms—too soft to satisfy.
“You off your game, Reid?” Adrian chirps, skating past, a taunt laced with camaraderie that crushes beneath the weight of my obsession.
“Worry about your own end,” I snap, sharper than intended.
My glove feels heavy. My stick grip is slick, the new tape I wrapped this morning foreign against my palm. I roll the shaft in my hand, trying to re-center my grip like that’ll fix everything. It doesn’t.
I miss a save I could make in my sleep. The puck thuds into the back of the net. I’m tracking late, my reaction a split second behind.
I blame the ice, the lights, the new tape.
I blame everything but the reality—her.
The memory of her pressed against me clogs my lungs. The scent—peppermint and old books—invades my senses, its sweetness like poison. It hit me when she scraped her back across my chest to get out of the booth. One second of contact that felt like a fucking eternity.
My body remembers it too well. Muscles wired tight in all the wrong places, useless for the only job that matters.
Another shot.
I snatch it, but my eyes stray to the parking lot—the way she froze when she saw me. The way her voice sounded, thin and breathless, when she said, “I will.”
The sound of her lock clicking into place—thunk.
A third shot fires. I don’t see it. It’s past me before I move.
The whistle shrieks.
“Reid! Wake the fuck up! Your head isn’t in the game!” Coach Addison’s voice pierces me, the reminder of his warning a hot wire in my gut.
She’s off-limits.
Addison put a spotlight on her, and now I can’t look away. Now she’s a contamination, a spreading infection. A fracture in the wall that’s widening, threatening to collapse everything I’ve built.
I can feel his eyes drilling into the back of my mask. Each soft goal is another mark on a ledger I can’t afford.
I’m not stupid—there are strikes on my record, even if they’re invisible.
The team is loose, joking. The energy is easy, but I’m a storm, breathing hard through my mask. Every puck I stop now feels like a small, violent victory against the chaos in my head.
Control the game. Control the noise. Control everything.
But I can’t. I’m leaking. Pressure builds, a toxic flood behind the wall, and I know I won’t get through the day without something snapping.
The final whistle blows—a shrill, piercing sound that scrapes across my raw nerves.
I don’t skate off.
I just get off. My movements are stiff, angry. The walk back—pads heavy, clattering on the rubber mats—is another failed ritual.
I’m the first one through the door, desperate for sanctuary, but the noise is already there.
The locker room is humid, thick with sweat, soap, and damp gear. Music blares. Guys yell. Skates clang against metal.
I keep my head down.
This is my sanctuary. My stall.
