I tap my stick on the ice, already tracking the next play.
My reads are sharper today. Positioning’s more solid. The defensive slump that’s been plaguing me since November?
All right, that’s still there.
But something’s different.
I can feel it—the way I’m reading the ice better, moving with more confidence, no longer second-guessing every decision. It’s not fixed. Not even close. But it’s…better.
Maybe I’m more relaxed. Maybe having one less crisis to manage—the image crisis finally down to a dull roar—freed up enough mental space that I can actually focus on hockey.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
Something I’m not ready to examine too closely.
I execute another decent defensive sequence. Not perfect, but competent. Wyatt makes the save behind me, nodding approval through his mask. Tyler skates past, grinning.
“Looking good out there, Kane.”
I don’t respond. Just reset for the next drill.
Practice continues. Drills, scrimmages, the familiar rhythm of skates against ice, sticks hitting pucks, Coach’s whistle cutting through it all.
By the time practice is called, I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in weeks.
Capable.
Not great. Not dominant. Not the player I used to be.
But capable.
It’s a start.
“Kane!” Coach waves me over as we’re clearing the ice. “Got a sec?”
I skate over, pulling off my helmet. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” He’s got that look—stern, but approving. “Your gap control is still too loose, among other things, but it’s an improvement.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Still a ways to go, but”—he pauses—“you’re looking a little more settled. Less…in your own head.”
Settled.
Interesting word choice.
“I’ve been working on it,” I say. How exactly is having a fake girlfriend helping my real hockey game? Your guess is as good as mine.
He claps my shoulder. “Well, keep working. We need you sharp for playoffs.”
“Yes, sir.”
The locker room is the usual chaos—guys stripping off gear, heading for showers, arguing about last night’s NFL game. I’m pulling off my jersey when Tyler drops onto the bench beside me.
“So. Chloe.”
“What about her?”
