The arena feels colder than usual.
It’s not the kind of cold that sharpens you, but the kind that seeps under your skin and starts rotting something important.
The Wolves’ anthem’s still ringing when we line up at center ice. The crowd’s a blur of colors, the boards flashing ads I don’t bother reading. The only thing that’s clear is the burn in my chest and the name looping in my head like a curse.
I don’t say it out loud, but it echoes anyway.
The puck drops.
I explode off the line, too fast. My body remembers the rhythm, but my mind’s a half-step behind, filled with gray eyes and words I can’t forget. Every shift, every hit, every breath, he’s there.
He’s supposed to be in Silver City tonight, smiling for the cameras with Thorn. Pretending I don’t exist. Pretending we didn’t spend an entire night losing control and calling it nothing.
The thought is gasoline.
I chase the puck like it’s running from me. My blade clips ice wrong; I overcorrect and nearly clip our defenseman.
“Jesus, Magnus!” Phoenix shouts from the bench.
I wave him off, skating harder, faster. The players are quick, but I can outrun them. What I can’t outrun is obsession.
The first shift is all noise — the slap of sticks, the grind of skates, my pulse hammering in my ears. The puck hits my stick, clean pass from Jax. I should shoot. Instead, I overhandle it, trying to out-dance two defenders.
They collapse on me. One poke-check, and it’s gone.
Turnover.
By the time I pivot back, they’re breaking down our zone.
Goal. The horn blares. Pirates 1, Wolves 0.
Phoenix slams the boards. I skate to the bench, breathing through clenched teeth.
“What the hell was that?” he snaps.
“I’ve got it next time,” I mutter.
He glares. “You better.”
Next time. That’s the lie I keep feeding myself. Second shift, I hit the ice like I’ve got something to prove. The puck finds me again, and I force it toward the net. Two defenders close in. I barrel through them instead of passing. The shot clangs off the post.
The rebound’s theirs. Another rush. Another goal. Pirates 2, Wolves 0.
I punch the plastic barrier, scaring some teenager behind the glass.
My teammates’ body language shifts—that collective exhale of frustration. They don’t say it, but I feel it:Flint’s off his game.They’re not wrong. By the end of the period, I’ve racked up one assist and three penalties.
Between periods, the locker room feels like a pressure cooker. The air reeks of sweat, frustration, and disbelief.
Phoenix’s voice cuts through the noise. “Magnus. You’re done freelancing out there. You blow another assignment, you sit.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy staring at the white tape wrapped around my stick—scuffed, cracked, unraveling.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Loud and clear.”
When the second period starts, I hit the ice like a bomb. Every shift’s a gamble; I hit too late, chase too wide, pick fights that don’t need fighting. I’m skating angry, not smart, and everyone knows it.
