That’s the third time this practice.
Good.
Great.
Fantastic.
I skate to the boards, grip my stick too tight. The tape on my blade is starting to fray—I should’ve retaped last night, but I was too busy staring at my ceiling and not sleeping—and my knuckles go white against the shaft.
Around me, the rest of the team keeps moving.
Tyler “Torch” Anderson—stocky, redheaded, freckled, the kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back and then give you a hard time about looking better in it than he did—is running drills with Kalen Boomer. They’re laughing about something. Probably me.
Derek glides past backward. “Nice one, Candy. Maybe try smiling at the puck next time. Might slow it down.”
I wrench my jaw shut. Because if I open my mouth right now, I might say something that ends up on SportsCenter, and Rick will have my head.
“What’s wrong?” Derek adds, loud enough for everyone in a ten-foot radius to hear. “Losing your sweetness?”
Someone snickers. I don’t look to see who.
Tyler skates closer, bumping Derek with his shoulder as he passes. “Ignore him, man. It’s not worth it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s hasn’t spent the last six months as the team joke.
Coach skates over. Doesn’t yell—never does. He played enforcer for fifteen years, still built like a tank. Despite his salt-and-pepper hair and a nose that’s been broken so many times it sits crooked on his face, the man knows how to make silence hurt more than shouting ever could. He stops in front of me, arms crossed over his Blue Ox windbreaker, studying me like I’m a play he can’t figure out.
“Kane.” He jerks his head toward the bench. “A word.”
Here we go.
I follow him off the ice, skates heavy on the rubber mats. The fluorescent lights above are too bright, bouncing off every surface—ice, boards, glass—making my head pound.
Coach leans against the boards. Doesn’t sit, just waits until I’m looking at him.
“Your head’s not in the game.”
It’s not a question.
“I’m fine, Coach.” The words come out automatic. Smooth. The same tone I use with reporters when they ask about contract negotiations or trade rumors.I’m just focused on the team. Taking it one game at a time. You know how it is.
“Save the media training for the press conference.” His voice is flat. “I need my top defenseman sharp. Focused. Whatever’s going on off the ice, figure it out. Or you’re riding the bench next game.”
My jaw tightens. I can’t afford to be watching from the sidelines while Blake and Derek and every other hungry kid on the roster prove they can do my job better than I can. Can’t afford for the front office to start asking questions about my contract renewal.
As far as what’s going on off the ice…If I knew how to shake it off, I would have done it months ago. But I can’t tell him that.
“Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” He pauses, and something almost like sympathy crosses his face. The same look he gave Conrad Kingston a year ago when Con was spiraling. “You’re better than this, Kane.”
My pulse thickens. I used to be.
Coach steps back onto the ice. “Pull it together.” Skates away, leaving me behind. Just me, the bench, and those words that sound an awful lot like my next headline.
Used to be.
My gear hits the floor of my stall with more force than necessary as I peel each piece away. Helmet, gloves, shoulder pads, elbow pads, shin guards. My jersey is soaked through—dark blue with white trim, number seven on the back, KANE spelled out in block letters that feel like they’re getting heavier every game.
