Cooper’s whistle slices through the air. “Let’s go! Warm-up laps, keep the tempo high.”
I push into a lap, then two, lungs opening to the cold. For a few minutes, I’m just a body moving through space. No press releases. No PR scripts. No woman whose breath I can still feel against my mouth. Chirps start up because they always do.
“Yo, Hendrix!” Crosby yells from two skaters back. “You gonna keep up, or we gotta grab a tow rope?”
“Still faster than your shot,” I throw over my shoulder.
“That’s a low bar, kid. Even Beau’s glove hand moves quicker than you.”
Beau shakes his head from center ice. “Less talk, more skating.”
“Tell him that when he’s huffing behind me!” I shout back.
Light, familiar laughter ripples across the rink, loosening something in my chest. For the first time in days, the world doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing.
“Half-moon drill!” Cooper’s voice cuts through the noise. “Quick passes, keep your feet moving.”
The puck slides, sticks snap, and the rhythm builds until it’s all motion and muscle memory. Cole feeds me a pass from the corner. I cradle it, pivot, and rip a wrist shot top shelf. The puck hits off the post and goes in; the ringing of steel on steel always hits like a pulse I can trust.
“Save some for the game, Rookie!” someone yells.
“Tell your goalie to catch one, then we’ll talk!” I fire back, grinning.
Cooper shakes his head from the bench, but I catch the ghost of a smirk. It’s the closest he gets to approval.
We reset for battle drills. Tight spaces, body contact, and pure chaos. I win the puck off a scrum, fight off a stick to my ribs, and send a pass to Cole across the slot. He finishes clean, tapping his stickagainst the boards. “That’s how it’s done, little brother.”
“Try not to sound so shocked,” I say, breathless but smiling.
We roll right into the next sequence. The puck slides from me to Cole again, smooth and sharp, then back to my stick. I shift my weight and feed it up the boards to our winger streaking into open ice. A clean, simple pass that quiets the noise in my head.
On the next rep, I hold my spot near the blue line, waiting for the forwards to set their screen. When the traffic builds in front of the net, I glide a few feet sideways, draw back my stick, and fire low. The puck skims across the ice, just grazing the goalie’s pad before catching a teammate’s stick, who redirects it into the net.
Sticks tap the boards, and a couple of the guys whistle. It’s the sound of approval without words, the language every player knows. For a few seconds, everything makes sense. The noise in my head quiets, my breathing steadies, and it’s just me, the puck, and the clean rhythm of the game. Nothing else. No headlines. No fake dating. No Alycia Torres.
Cooper’s whistle blows again, sharp enough to bite through the air. “Reset. And the two-on-two, low zone.”
I line up across from Cole and one of the other rookies, stick tapping against the ice. The puck drops, and for the next sixty seconds, there’s nothing but motion and noise. Blades cutting. Bodies slamming the boards. Shouts bouncing off the glass.
I fightoff a shoulder check, steal the puck, and thread it through Cole’s skates just to piss him off. He barks a laugh, but catches up, leaning in with a shove that nearly knocks me off balance.
“Nice try, kid,” he mutters. “Next time, pick someone slower.”
“Didn’t know there was anyone slower,” I shoot back.
“Cocky looks good on you. Don’t eat shit before Saturday.”
“Would want to ruin your highlight reel,” I say, grinning despite myself.
We break for a line change, and I coast to the bench. Breath burning sharp in my throat, the world narrows to the hiss of my skates. Sweat beads under my helmet, dripping past my collar, as I grab a water bottle and take a long pull. My eyes fix on the far boards where the next line sets. The noise dulls to a hum, blending into something steady, but then the entire energy in the rink shifts.
For a few minutes, I don’t see her face. The change is energy, a shift near the boards. The way guys straighten unconsciously when the media shows up. A flash of a badge. The flicker of red tally lights on shoulder cameras. The hair on my arms prickles inside my base layer before my eyes find her.
Alycia stands just past the Zamboni gate, headset pushed around her neck, her mouth arranged into a neutrality she doesn’t feel. She looks like PR carved outof bone, but I know better because beneath the armor is the woman who walked out of Cooper’s office pretending that I hadn’t almost cost her everything.
My stride hitches for half a second—not enough for anyone to notice—but I shove it down and skate through it, forcing my legs back into rhythm like nothing cracked inside me.
She’s talking to a cameraman now, gesturing toward the boards, her lips moving in that quiet, decisive way that makes people listen. The camera lights blink red. Probably here for B-roll for the morning segment, riding the wave of the press release she wrote. She’s too good at making people believe what they’re told to feel.
