Are you compromised?
The last word echoes louder than the others.
Compromised. By his daughter.
The thought makes my chest tighten.
Practice resumes.
I push myself harder, faster, trying to stay sharp.
But it’s not enough. I’m late on coverage. I misread a pass.
Petrov blows the whistle again. “Morrison,” he says calmly.
That calm tone is worse than yelling. “Yes, Coach.”
He steps onto the ice, stopping a few feet from me. “You’re slow today.”
It’s not a question.
“No, sir.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
He knows that’s a lie.
He steps closer.
“Your head isn’t here.”
I hold his gaze.
“It is.”
He studies me for a long second. Too long.
Then he nods once. “Fix it.”
“Yes, coach.”
He skates away.
My pulse doesn’t slow.
Because that wasn’t the conversation. That was the warning.
The conversation will come later in private. Where he can dissect me piece by piece.
Practice ends, and the team starts filing off the ice.
I pull off my helmet and head straight for the locker room, avoiding Petrov’s gaze without making it obvious.
My focus narrows to a single objective.
Escape.
I strip out of my gear faster than usual and skip the post-practice shower entirely. Within two minutes, I’m out the door.
