“Shut up,” I say, but there’s no heat behind it, just the thudding pressure beneath my ribs that hasn’t eased since the gala.
Cooper’s whistle cuts through the air like a knife tapping glass. “Kyle, you’re up.”
I push off the line and glide backward into position, lowering my center of gravity, stick extended in the passing lane, the way Beau drilled into me when I was sixteen. The world narrows to Diaz across from me. He’s also a rookie, with quick feet and the confidence that comes with youth and not enough hard lessons yet.
He starts down the ice with a controlled stride, the puck moving in easy arcs across his blade. My job is simple. Hold the gap. Make him uncomfortable. Force him wide or strip the puck. Nothing more. Nothing less. As he picks up speed, something inside me slips.
I try to match his pace, adjusting my edges, controlling the backward glide, but my timing is wrong. I am half a beat behind, and Diaz feints left. My weight shifts too early, throwing me off balance. He takes advantage instantly, cutting across my body with a burst of acceleration that leaves a streak of ice shavings in his wake. I reach out, trying to close the lane, but my stick hits nothing but air as he blows past.He would’ve had a clean path to the net if this were live.
Behind me, I hear Cole suck in a breath. Somewhere farther out, Cooper mutters something that sounds a lot like frustration. Beau steps forward near the crease, one hand braced on the crossbar, eyes narrowed, tracking the exact moment everything went wrong.
“Your hips opened too soon,” Beau calls, voice calm but firm. “You gave him the lane before he earned it.”
“I know,” I say, though the words feel thick in my throat.
“And you were drifting instead of dictating,” Cooper adds, skating a few feet closer, tone clipped. “A forward like Diaz eats that alive every time.”
They’re right. I know they are. But knowing doesn’t fix the fact that my body isn’t responding, and my mind is somewhere else entirely. Every time I try to focus on Diaz or the drill, I feel the ghost of Alycia’s voice pressing into my ears like cold fingers on the back of my neck.
Cooper blows the whistle again. “Reset. Diaz, again. Let’s go.”
I skate back to the blue line and drag a deep breath into my lungs. It does nothing to steady me. Cole glides up beside me again, less smug this time, concern pulling his features tight.
“Kyle,” he murmurs, “you are off. And not just a little. What is goingon?”
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t believe me either.
The whistle sounds, and I am moving before I’m ready, backward strides carrying me into the lane. Diaz approaches faster now, no more half-speed courtesy. I sink lower, trying to control the angle, to read his weight before he shifts instead of chasing him after.
He crosses the blue line, and my timing breaks apart again. His shoulder dips, and I misread it. My feet tangle for half a heartbeat, a tiny misstep most people wouldn’t notice, but in that half-beat, the gap widens. Diaz darts behind me with ease, and my stick clatters uselessly against the ice.
“Jesus,” Cooper mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Beau runs a hand through his hair. “You are dropping your top hand. That’s not like you.”
“I know,” I force out, the words scraping something raw.
Cole skates closer, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. He says nothing, but his stare feels like it cuts straight through the excuses I haven’t even managed to make yet. There’s no chance I’m walking out of this practice without one of them wanting answers.
Before I can put together anything resembling an explanation, the metal doors at the far end of the rink open with a low groan. The sound rolls over the ice and pulls every nerve in my body taut. I feel her before I see her.
Alycia walks in with the media team orbitingaround her. She moves with quiet authority, every step steady and precise. Her hair is twisted smooth at the nape of her neck, the line of her shoulders elegant and controlled. Neutrals again today, soft beige and black, colors that make her look even sharper, as if she built herself out of intention alone.
She looks untouched by the wreckage of the last two days, but I know better. I have memorized too many of her tells. Her eyes sweep the rink, cataloging everything she needs. The camera operator asks a question. She answers with a nod, expression cool and professional. Then her gaze lands on me.
Something in my chest seizes, the air leaving my lungs in a slow, painful drag. I straighten instinctively, some part of me desperate to meet that look, to hold it, to find anything in it. She glances away before I can read a thing. Like I am just another player. Not the man who watched her walk away as if it cost her something she couldn’t afford to say out loud.
Cole exhales quietly beside me. “Well. That looked like it hurt.”
I don’t tell him to shut up. I’m not even sure the words would come out if I tried.
Beau, still at the crease, has that look that says he has noticed more than I wanted him to. Cooper shifts at center ice, focus flicking between me, Alycia, and the drill with a stare edged in assessment and something that looks a lot like concern.
She continues across the rink, chin lifted, gestures efficient, expression unbreakable. Her shoulders are afraction too tight. Her movements are a little too rehearsed, telling me she isn’t fine; she is pretending. The knowledge hits like a body check I never saw coming.
Cooper’s whistle blares again, snapping me back into motion. “Get back in the drill, Kyle. Right side. Now.”
