Petrov’s voice cuts across the rink like a warning. “Morrison.”
I adjust immediately, skating harder, faster, correcting positioning that didn’t need correcting.
“Again,” Petrov says.
We run it again.
I miss the timing by half a second. Half a second. It might as well be an hour.
Petrov’s whistle blows, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s worse.
I circle back into position, jaw tight.
I don’t miss timing. I don’t lose focus.
Except every time I push off the ice, my brain betrays me—thinking of her mouth on mine, of her laugh at dinner last night, and the way she stood in my kitchen wearing my T-shirt.
And then the painting.
Jesus, the painting.
I nearly collide with Connor when he cuts across my lane.
“Whoa,” he says. “You good?”
“Fine.”
I’m not fine.
Petrov watches from the boards. He hasn’t said anything else yet. He doesn’t have to. He sees everything. He always has.
We run another drill. Defensive rotation. Pressure response.
My feet move automatically. My brain doesn’t.
I glance toward the boards again without meaning to.
Petrov is still watching me. Not the team, but me specifically.
His eyes are sharp and assessing.
My stomach tightens.
He knows something’s off.
He built his entire career on noticing cracks before anyone else did.
And right now, I’m nothing but cracks.
He wants to talk to me. Alone.
I know it the same way I know when a defender is about to close in behind me. It’s instinct.
He’ll wait until practice ends, then call my name. He’ll close the office door. And then he’ll ask questions I don’t have answers to.
Where’s your focus, Morrison?
Is there something affecting your performance?
