Was that all a lie?
Chapter 9
Sharp Teeth
Lenzin
The tunnel reverberates with a volume that feels excessive. Not the crowd's roar, not yet. This is the internal clamor: the scrape of skates against concrete, the building’s low hum, the irregular tapping of sticks against walls echoing like a heartbeat. Usually, this part calms me. The rhythm, the structure, the certainty that everything ahead follows its own set of rules—even the violence. But tonight, my calm is skewed. Not absent. Not shattered. Just slightly off-kilter, like a clock that ticks but is perpetually a minute fast. Annoying enough to be felt. Important enough to take note of.
I roll my shoulders slowly, deliberately. My helmet presses tighter than usual, and I feel a click in my jaw as I shift it. I catalog these sensations, treating them like data points rather than worries. Ahead of me, Aleks bounces lightly on his skates in a way that used to annoy me but now mostly brings a smile. Deacon is further along, already lost in his own thoughts, tapping his posts with a kind of reverence, locked in and ready
I take my position without haste. This is where I belong; this is the part I get. Yet, beneath it all, something thrums under my skin. As we step onto the ice, the lights blaze too brightly, Florida’s brightness even at night—aggressive and unappreciated. The crowd noise surges instantly, loud and raw, like enthusiasm stripped of nuance. The Gators’ logo at center ice feels smug beneath my blades.
I skate my warmup laps with purpose, testing my edges, fine-tuning my stride. The ice feels both fast and wrong, slicker than Tampa yet burdened with the same humidity-softened resistance. I correct. Adapt. Compensate.
Aleks glides past me, flicking a puck at my shins. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet,” I reply.
“Not like this.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “You’re not exactly chatty yourself.”
Before he can respond, I push off and skate away.
The anthem washes over the arena, a blur of sound. Stick taps echo, helmets adjust with deliberate clicks, and then the puck drops.
On the first shift, I keep it straightforward. My gap control is tight, stick positioned firmly in the lane. I retrieve the puck cleanly and send it up the ice without fuss. That part of me feels solid, unyielding. Deacon gives a small nod of acknowledgment from his position.
On the second shift, I decide to step up a half beat earlier than usual. It pays off; the winger hesitates, loses the puck, and I move it up the ice smoothly. No harm done, yet a faint buzz of satisfaction prickles at the back of my mind. I push it away.
By the third shift, I finish a check with more force than necessary. The boards rattle beneath the impact, and I feelit resonate through my shoulder, a sharp reminder of the physicality of the game. It’s clean, it’s legal, and it’s aggressive.
Aleks calls out from the crease, “Alright then.”
I skate past him, offering no reply.
The Gators chatter incessantly, their voices rising above the thick humidity that clings to the air like a damp blanket. A whistle pierces through the noise, and suddenly their center collides with me, a casual bump meant to test my resolve. “Easy, big guy,” he grins, expecting a friendly smile to break the tension.
I don’t give him one. Instead, I lock my gaze onto his, unyielding, until the ref intervenes, forcing him to retreat, still smirking as if he’s planted a seed of doubt. I know I shouldn’t let this escalate, but I do anyway.
By the end of the first period, I’ve absorbed more contact than usual. I’m not out of position; I’m not being reckless. I’m simply… present. Assertive. Less inclined to let plays fizzle out unnoticed.
Deacon glances at me, brow furrowed. “You good?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay smart.”
“I am smart,” I retort, the words sharper than intended.
He exhales through his nose, a sound of mild concern. “You’re something tonight.”
As the second period unfolds, the game tightens. The Gators ramp up their pace, and I respond by closing the gap more aggressively. I pinch into the play when I shouldn’t, but I recover just in time, feeling that familiar buzz again—not relief, but satisfaction. This isn’t the way I typically play. I know that.
A scrum erupts near the net after Deacon freezes the puck. Gloves stay on, but bodies clash, shoving begins, and I move inimmediately, positioning myself between Deacon and a Gators forward who’s running his mouth too much.
“Back up,” I command.
