He studies me for a long moment, gaze narrowing. Yeah…he’s not buying it.
I’m not sure I would either.
“Your defensive play has been off for two weeks. Tonight’s the night you fix it. We clear?”
“Crystal.”
He walks away, and of course the locker room goes quiet as a church. Oh goody, everyone heard that.
I finish with my skates, and when my phone buzzes again, I pull it out.
Rick
Contract ready. Need you to review before I send to her. Call me after the game.
Something in my chest tightens. The contract is ready. The contract that turns this crazy plan into something legally binding. Something real.
I wish.
There’s no time to look at it though. I toss my phone into the locker and head for the tunnel. The muffled roar of the crowd echoes off the cinderblock walls, the cool rink air seepingin, and with it, the distinct arena smell—ice, popcorn, beer, and possibility.
The arena is maybe half full. It’s a Thursday night game against the Seattle Firebirds, a team we should beat easily. The seats are a patchwork of Blue Ox jerseys peppered with some of the black-and-orange of the Firebirds. A handful of dedicated fans bang on the glass during warm-ups, their faces pressed against the plexiglass like kids at an aquarium.
I warm up with the team, take to the box, listen to the coaches. And most importantly, absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent do not think about the contract. Or about Saturday. About walking into that party with Chloe on my arm. About Derek’s scrutiny. About her family’s questions.
No sir. I’m not thinking about any of that.
I’m on the first line, of course. The puck drops with a hollowcrackthat echoes through the arena.
I’m supposed to be marking their center, Jenkins, a journeyman player who’s been in the league for eight years. Instead, I’m half a step behind, thinking about the contract burning a hole in my phone.
Jenkins blows past me like I’m standing still. His skates spray ice crystals, and I turn to see him shoot—a wrist shot that sails toward the net. Wyatt makes the save, but barely, his glove hand flashing out at the last second.
“Kane!” Coach Jacobsen’s voice from across the ice, cutting through the organ music and scattered applause. “Wake up!”
I grit my teeth and reset, taking my position at the blue line. Bang the ice with my stick.
Focus! Contract or no, you’re gonna be out of a job if you can’t get it together.
But two plays later, their winger is open because I drifted too far left, chasing a pass that was never coming. Derek has to cover for me, abandoning his position to prevent a breakaway.
The other defenseman, Conrad Kingston (King Con—why didn’t I get a name like that?), skates past me during a line change, catches my eye as we tap gloves. The look is clear:Get your head in the game.
The period ends scoreless, but we’re being outshot 11–7.
In the locker room, the mood is tense. Guys strip off their gloves, grab water bottles from the coolers, towel off sweat. The coaching staff huddles near the whiteboard, drawing up adjustments with squeaky markers. Coach Jacobsen pulls me aside.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I take a long drink from my water bottle, avoiding his eyes.
“You’re playing like your head is somewhere else.”
“Just an off night. I’ll adjust.”
He looks at me like he’s deciding whether to bench me or give me one more chance. In the background, the assistant coaches talk strategy.
“Fix it.” It’s not a request.
