I skate onto the ice with every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to snap. The cold air bites at my face, but it does nothing to cool the heat building under my skin.
"Easy, Dec," Jake warns during warm ups, skating alongside me as his brown eyes assess me. "You're wound up."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look like you want to put someone through the glass."
I don't respond. Just line up for the next drill.
Coach calls for a full-contact scrimmage. Marcus is on the opposite line, and I see the way his jaw tightens when we make eye contact. He still hasn't forgiven me for Ivy, even after our talk.
The puck drops. Tyler Chen has possession. I'm on him immediately, stick checking harder than necessary. He curses, fighting me off.
"Back off, Hawthorne!"
I don't back off.
Connor tries to intercept on the next play. I use my body to shield the puck, my elbow catching his ribs harder than it should. The rookie goes down with a grunt.
The whistle blows.
"Hawthorne, ease up!" Coach yells from the bench.
I skate harder instead, chasing every loose puck like my life depends on it. The physical exertion should clear my head, burn off the toxic mix of anger and heartbreak churning in my gut.
It doesn't.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see Ivy's face. The way she looked at me in that hallway devastated, betrayed, broken. The sound of her voice when she said we were done.
The memory of her body against mine. Her laugh. The way she'd bite her lip when she wanted me. How she felt in my arms, soft and perfect andmine.
Except she was never really mine. Not when I built everything on lies.
Marcus has the puck now. I go after him, faster and more aggressive. He sees me coming and tries to dodge, but I'm already committed to the hit.
We collide hard into the boards.
The impact reverberates through my entire body. My shoulder takes the brunt of it. But my head snaps to the side, helmet cracking against the glass.
For a second, everything goes white.
Then I'm on the ice, the cold seeping through my gear. Sound becomes muffled, like I'm underwater. Someone's shouting, but I can't make out the words.
"Dec! Declan!"
Hands grip my arms, hauling me upright. My legs don't quite cooperate.
"Get him to medical," Coach orders. "Now."
The next few minutes are hazy as someone puts me on a stretcher and takes me to the medical room saturated with the smell of antiseptic. I stare at the wall, welcoming the pain. I'm sitting on the examination table, still staring, when Dr. Logan walks in with his tablet.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
"You took a hard hit. I need to run a concussion protocol." He taps something on his screen. "I'm going to have someone come in to do the assessment."
"I said I'm fine."
