Foreign ice. Tropical temperatures. It feels like a crime.
“You can’t tell me this is regulation,” Aleks grumbles behind me, his voice muffled as he pulls his hood up, as if fabric could shield him from Florida’s oppressive warmth. “I can feel the sun through the walls.”
Aleks jabs a finger toward me. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”
I remain silent because I do feel it. I just refuse to give him the validation he craves.
We skate.
The ice is softer than I’d like, and every stop sends up a bit more spray than it should. It’s manageable, of course, because we’re professionals, but it’s irritating in that specific way only someone obsessive can truly appreciate. The boards feel a little bouncier, and the puck glides differently. Everything is off by a degree, and when your life is built on precision, a single degree is enough to throw you off balance.
Hank skates up late, helmet clipped on, hair still damp from the shower, already in a mood that suggests he woke up and remembered he gets paid to play hockey, treating that realization like it’s a personal victory parade. “Let’s go dominate this tropical slush.”
“Do not call it slush,” I retort automatically.
Hank grins at me, clearly having anticipated my response. “You hate it here, huh?”
“I hate nothing,” I counter.
Deacon coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.
Koa glides out, phone in hand, completely unrepentant. He’s the only one who can get away with it without facing any backlash, because his wife is pregnant, and we’ve all collectively agreed that makes him untouchable. It seems Coach D is ignoring it as well, huh, go figure.
He glances at the screen, types quickly, then looks back up. “She says the baby kicked again.”
Hank’s expression softens instantly. “That’s sick. Tell her the kid has elite footwork already.”
Koa’s smile is small and genuine. “I did.”
Aleks emits a sound that resembles physical agony. “Must be nice.”
“Okay, okay,” Hank calls as he backchecks like he’s auditioning for a highlight reel. “Everybody, stay calm. I’m basically a veteran now.”
“You are literally not,” Aleks says, skating by him with the tired energy of a man whose soul is still in New York. “You were born yesterday.”
“Jealousy is a disease,” Hank replies. “Get well soon.”
“He’s from Texas Killer, chill.” Deacon glides past us, stickhandling with casual control.
“Thank you,” I say, because Deacon and I share a mutual appreciation for not only silence, but Aleks taking it down a notch or twenty.
We keep the skate light. Some flow drills, some puck movement, nothing that risks a groin pull in a city where the air feels like hot soup. Then it’s showers, and the day is ours.
We emerge from the arena into Florida brightness so aggressive it feels like an attack. The sun hits my skin and my patience simultaneously.
Aleks squints at the sky like it’s a personal enemy. “I hate it here.”
“Liar,” Hank says. “You only hate it because Sofie isn’t here to hold your hand and tell you you’re brave.”
Aleks flips him off without looking. “I would be less miserable if she were holding my hand, yes. Thank you for noticing my feelings.”
Koa’s phone buzzes again. He glances down, thumbs a reply, and slips it away. “She wants to know if I’m eating enough.”
Deacon chuckles. “Are you?”
Koa considers. “Define enough.”
Hank hooks an arm around Koa’s shoulder like they’re lifelong friends, even though Hank does this to everyone. “We’re gonna get lunch. You’re gonna eat. For the baby.”
