I push off the boards and gather speed, trying to shake off the pounding in my chest from one look. Cole drifts back to his lane, but keeps glancing at me, braced for the moment I implode.
I drop into my stance as Diaz approaches yet again. I already know my timing is off. My feet glide where they should cut and cut where they should glide. The ice feels foreign, like I am skating to someone else’s rhythm. I try to focus on the puck, but all I feel is the ghost of her eyes sliding away from mine and the twist in my chest that follows.
Diaz crosses the line. His weight shifts. And I fall for it again. He swerves around me like I’m a traffic cone instead of a defenseman. My stick slams against the ice with a sharp crack, frustration burning through me so hot my vision washes out at the edges.
Cooper lowers his whistle, staring at me like I am twelve again. Beau looks like he’s running diagnostics on every part of me. Cole is watching me with worry that would have been funny any other day. None of it hits as hard as what I see when I look toward the far boards.
Alycia is watching me just long enough for me tosee the crack in her expression. A tightening around her mouth. A flicker in her eyes. Another tiny fracture. It detonates something inside me because she is trying to do the professional, safe thing, and it’s tearing her up the same way it is me. For the first time in forty-eight hours, the crushing weight in my chest shifts. Not to hope, more like the seed of something I’m terrified to name and even more terrified to lose.
The whistle finally blows for the end of drills, and I skate toward the bench with legs heavy from two days of hauling this around. The boards feel cool beneath my palms when I brace against them, head bowed, each inhale dragging across something raw inside my ribs.
I don’t have to look up to know my brothers are watching. I can feel three versions of the same instinct tuned to me, the way it’s been since we were kids. Cole glides toward the bench first, stick tapping the ice in a soft rhythm, the same pattern he used to knock on my door with before barging in when he knew I’d been crying. Beau hangs near the crease, nudging the net back into place like he needs a task before stepping into a conversation he knows I’m not ready for. Cooper stands at center ice, whistle hanging from his fingers, gauging how hard he can push without breaking something fragile.
“Kyle,” Cooper calls, voice steady but edged. “Off-ice recovery. Hydrate. We’ll regroup in the locker room.”
I nod, helmet tipping forward, throat too tight to speak. Skating off the ice feels like wadingthrough molasses, each step pulling more of me down, but the instant the blades leave the frozen surface and hit the rubber mats, the air shifts around me, almost claustrophobically. My shoulders tighten beneath my pads, and I force myself toward the tunnel with my gear hanging off me like extra weight.
Cole appears beside me almost immediately, matching my pace without comment, his silence doing more to unravel me than any words could have. He’s smart enough to know better than to ask me if I’m okay, but he also doesn’t walk away. His presence alone was enough to steady me through hell in the past; today, it barely puts a dent in the chaos churning behind my sternum.
We step into the locker room, the heavy door swinging shut behind us with a dull thud. The space smells of sweat and the underlying scent of detergent that never quite manages to drown out the grit of hockey. Racks of drying gear line the walls. A few players are already at their stalls, stripping off pads, the rumble of their conversation blurred against the static in my head.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall, elbows braced on my knees as I unbuckle my shin guards. When I pull my helmet off, the cold air hits the back of my neck and sends a chill straight down my spine. Cole stands in front of me, his gloves off, his dark hair stuck in damp points around his forehead.
“Okay,” he says quietly, letting the word hang inthe air like a line cast out to see if I’ll take it. “What the hell is going on with you?”
I tug off my left elbow pad, dropping it beside me with a hollow thud. “I said I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
Cole crouches, securing himself so he’s directly in my line of sight, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Kyle. You missed three gap reads today. Three. You never miss gap reads.”
I swallow, my throat feeling like sandpaper. “I was off.”
“Yeah, you were off—the ice, the drills, and the fucking planet—but don’t pretend it’s random. You’re not a rookie having a bad day. Something is messing with your head.”
Before I can pull myself together enough to answer, Beau walks in from the tunnel. His eyes land on me, and concern wrapped in protective instinct that hasn’t dimmed since we were kids flashes in his eyes.
“You were skating too high on your edges,” Beau says as he reaches us, leaning one shoulder against a locker. “You almost rolled your ankle on that first rep.”
“I know,” I mutter.
“And your stick was dropping low in transitions.”
“I know.”
“And you misread Diaz’s weight shift twice.”
“I fucking know, okay?” I snap, loud enough that a couple of guys at nearby stalls glance over.
Beau’s voice softens just a fraction. “Then what’s going on?”
I look away, staring at the laces of my skates. “I just…” The words die in my throat, locked behind something I can’t force open.
Cole exhales slowly, nodding once like he’s piecing things together on a chalkboard behind his eyes. “Did something happen between you and Alycia?”
A muscle in my jaw ticks as I look away again, focusing on the lockers across from me. The familiar Timberwolves decals stuck slightly crooked on a few of them. I don’t move or even blink for a full second. And in that tiny pocket of silence, Cole gets his answer.
“Oh, shit,” he murmurs, realization settling in.
