But then shadow anxiety rushed in to counteract it—because the moment I drifted too close to Noah or Trick during a scrimmage, three defenders shifted automatically. Not aggressive. Not pointed. Just… instinctive.
Protectingthemfromme. A slice of cold slid down my spine. Of course they would. Why wouldn’t they? My father had tried to end Tennant Rowe’s career. He’d injured Bryan Delaney. The Railers were built on survivors of that legacy. And I shared his name.
When even Frosty angled his body between Noah and me on the next cycle drill—not rough, not pointed, just automatic—my lungs constricted.
They didn’t trust me.
Or worse—they were waiting for me to slip.
I got the puck again, cut the corner tight, and pushed into open space too fast, too sharp. Anxiety made me over-skate everything. I tripped my stride, recovered, heard someone snort a laugh—was that at me? Shame hit fast, hot under my skin. My chest locked up, breaths stuttering as I reset for the next drill.
Don’t spiral. Don’t give them anything.
And then—unbidden, unwelcome—Cam flickered through my head. The way he’d looked at me as though I wasn’t a problem to solve. Like I wasn’t already failing.
The idea of him seeing me like this made my stomach twist.
Not because I cared what he thought.
Because I did.
The rest of the practice was a blur. Carts kept feeding me passes. Trick included me in rush plays. Jack—Cap—called out, “Good hustle!” every time I didn’t fall on my ass.
But every laugh behind me sounded wrong. Every whisper felt directed at me. Every glance was a judgment I hadn’t earned but would still pay for.
I knew some of it wasn’t real—didn’t matter; the fear rushed in anyway, filling every gap with the worst version of the truth.
When Coach blew the final whistle, we headed back to the locker room, and the space was filled with easy post-practice chatter—sticks tapping, towels snapping, guys chirping each other. Noah said something to Trick, and they rolled out this wholething.
“I’m petitioning the league to move you to rec hockey,” Trick groused, peeling tape off his stick.
Noah snorted. “Funny, coming from a man who wipes out on a blue line like it’s his sworn enemy.”
“That was one time.” Trick threw a roll of tape at him.
“Three times.” Noah caught it and threw it back. “If we count preseason. And practice. And warmups.”
A couple of guys laughed. Trick pointed a warning finger at Noah. “Keep talking, Gunny, and I’m stealing your pregame playlist and replacing it with polka.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Their chirping bounced around the room—easy, familiar, warm. It should have felt inviting. Instead, it curled around me like something I wasn't allowed to touch, a reminder of everything I didn’t know how to step into.
I didn’t join in.
I didn’t knowhow.
I sat in my stall and slowly stripped my gloves, found my watch, put it on, and folded and unfolded the clasp with my thumb. Theclick-snap-clickbuilt a rhythm in my head I could breathe to. Coach was chatting to Cap, and Cap glanced over at me—the kind of quick look saying a decision had been made. This was it. The moment I got told I was headed to the AHL for conditioning or some shit. I wanted so badly to belong that it ached, a deep, hot pressure under my ribs, something stupid and childish and humiliating, but real all the same.
People moved around me. Some nodded. Others… didn't. Noah tried to talk to me, and I knew I answered, but it was distant.
Cap walked past, gave me a quick, solid knock on the shoulder pad. “Nice work today, Jari. Coach wants you in his office.”
My heart dropped. “Yes, Cap.” I stripped off my pads, down to a T-shirt, pulled on shorts and running shoes, and headed out—laughter following me. They must haveknownI'd been canned. It was only a matter of time.
Coach Morin gestured me in, shut the door behind us, and leaned on the edge of his desk.
