When I step onto the ice, the cold rush is a hit straight to the bloodstream. The crease is where it always is. Six by four. My box.
I tap the left post.
Clack.
Right post.
Clack.
The sound rings clean. Not perfect—there’s still a hairline fracture under everything—but solid enough to hold.
“Let’s go, boys!” Coach’s whistle shrieks.
Shots come. I track, read, react. My body remembers what my head’s been trying to forget. Puck to pad. Glove save. Rebound controlled. Every stop is a small, defiantfuck youto the part of me that thinks I’m just a bomb waiting to detonate.
I’m not perfect. A couple get behind me I should have had. But the rhythm returns, inch by inch.
Control the game.
Control the noise.
Control everything.
Or fake it well enough to keep the net.
After practice, the hallway outside the locker room is a funnel of steam and noise. Guys peel off to the weight room, the training room, the showers. I move slower, bag over my shoulder, stick in hand, tape rough against my skin.
I’m almost to the exit when I feel it.
That prickle at the back of my neck.
Watching.
I look up.
She’s there.
Talia stands at the far end of the hall near the lobby doors, half-shadowed by the glass trophy case. Hoodie, leggings, campus ID lanyard looped around her fingers. Clara’s beside her, talking with her hands, clearly mid-rant about something.
Talia isn’t listening. Not really. Her eyes are on me.
For one suspended second, it’s just us in the corridor. The rest of the world blurs—Clara, the players passing between, the hum of the vending machine.
I see it hit her—the gear, the wet hair, the taped knuckles, the reminder of exactly what I did and who I am. Her fingers tighten around the lanyard. Her shoulders lift a fraction, then drop.
She looks away first.
The flinch is small, but I see it. My brain, generous bastard that it is, fills in the rest—fear, disgust, smart self-preservation.Of course she doesn’t hold my gaze. Why would she? In her version of the story, I’m still the guy choking a teammate; she never got the part where I did it because of her name.
It shouldn’t hurt like it does.
Clara follows her gaze, spots me, gives a small, guarded nod. Neutral. Not inviting. Not hostile. A warning:I see you. I see what you did. I’m watching how close you get.
Adrian bumps my shoulder as he passes. He doesn't look at me, eyes tracking Clara and Talia, but his voice drops low enough that only I catch it.
“Don’t.”
There’s a weight to the word. A suspicion. He knows me better than anyone—he knows I don't just ‘happen’ to be in parking lots at midnight. He suspects I’m already crossing the line Coach just redrew.
