The whistle blew,and I dug in, my legs burning as I pushed through the final sprint. I was exhausted, though it was the good kind for once. Unlike last year, when every drill felt like I was dragging myself through mud, my body was responding the way it should—explosive, efficient, dialed in. Then, I’d been sucking wind by the third rep, but now I still had gas in the tank.
Coach Hendricks stood at the boards with his stopwatch, nodding as I crossed the line. The rest of the guys finished their reps, breathing hard. Bell skated past and tapped my shin guard with his stick. “Looking good, T.”
“Thanks.”
He flashed me a grin. “All that self-reflection is really paying off, yeah?”
I narrowed my eyes at him in a “keep your fucking mouth shut” kind of look, but couldn’t help smiling.
Back in Vegas, I’d made a pact with myself: get my shit together or get out. And since I wasn’t ready to quit just yet, I’d thrown myself into this season with everything I had.
All the sex I’d had recently certainly hadn’t hurt, either. It was amazing what waking up sated and happy could do for a man’s outlook—and his game.
For the first time since my rookie season, it felt like my systems were firing on all cylinders, and I’d settled into a rhythm: early morning conditioning, film sessions analyzing our defensive pairings and zone coverage, then ice time focused on backwards transitions, gap control, and one-on-one battles along the boards.
The afternoons were focused on recovery—cold plunge, massage, and mat pilates sessions with a few of the guys.
Bell had pressed and cajoled until I agreed to go, giving him shit about it the whole way there. Now, I had to admit the asshole had been right. My hips felt more open, my lower back wasn’t constantly tight, and I could feel the difference in my skating with smoother transitions and a wider stride.
The only thing that hadn’t found its rhythm was Sebastian and me.
We exchanged a handful of texts each day, most of them brief. We’d had exactly one real phone call since he’d started with the campaign, and that had lasted all of twenty minutes before someone was calling his name from down the hall.
I told myself I understood. Reminded myself this was what I’d signed up for.
Still, it didn’t make it easier.
I missed him so fucking much.
I’d gone ten years without Sebastian in my life, and somehow in fourteen days, he’d become so essential to me that everything felt off now. How had I ever functioned without hearing his voice? Without his weight beside me in bed?Now that I knew what it felt like to have him, going back to life without him seemed impossible.
I shook off the thought and focused on what I could control.
I hit the gym for a bit, then spent some time in the cold plunge, forcing myself not to check my phone every thirty seconds. When I got out—my skin bright red and covered ingoose pimples—I took a quick, hot shower and headed back to my stall.
Kramer, our defense coach, popped his head around the corner. “Hey, T. Hendricks wants to see you in his office.”
My stomach dropped. Being singled out by the head coach at this stage usually spelled bad news. The last time he’d pulled me aside like this was to tell me I was being moved down to the third pairing.
My mind raced through my performance this week, searching for what I might have screwed up, but I came up blank.
“Lemme just get dressed real quick.”
I toweled off quickly, threw on some sweats and a Marauders t-shirt, and headed down the hallway to his office. He waved me in without looking up from his tablet.
“Sit down, Morrison.”
I did, forcing myself to keep my hands relaxed on my thighs instead of balling them into fists or picking at my nails. To keep my breathing steady, even though my heart was trying to punch through my ribs.
Hendricks set his tablet aside and leaned back in his chair, studying me for what felt like ten minutes but was probably less than five seconds.
“First off, I want to say that whatever you did this summer to get into shape, keep doing it. Your conditioning testing is up across the board from last year. Your skating’s faster, endurance is better, and recovery times are down.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “But more than that, I’m seeing it in your game. Your gap control is sharper, you’re closing on attackers faster without getting beaten wide.” He tapped his desk twice for emphasis. “You’re finally playing with confidence.”
Relief flooded through me, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Here’s the thing.” He grabbed his tablet again and flicked it, swiping a few times. “Stevens got clearance to come back, but he and Monroe aren’t clicking. I want to try some new combinations, so I'm slotting you in with Monroe. See if you two have chemistry.”
I blinked, making sure I’d heard him right. Second pairing meant more ice time. A chance to prove I still belonged on this team. My hands went from relaxed to gripping my thighs before I consciously forced them loose again.
