I walked into the rink with my jaw already tight, shoulders braced like I was heading into a goddamn war instead of practice. The locker room buzzed with the usual noise—guys laughing, chirping each other, tossing tape across the room like we were still in college. I didn’t say a word.
The screen in the corner glowed like a curse. That same fucking video—Kennedy and Gary outside his place, her face twisted in frustration while that bastard dragged her like she was something he owned. I’d seen it this morning. Once. Then again. And again. Until my knuckles were raw from clenching my fists.
I forced myself to look away, slamming my locker closed harder than necessary. She hadn’t said much this morning. Smiled like nothing was wrong. But I could feel it—that shift in her, like she was slipping behind glass and locking the door.
And I hated it.
I shoved my pads on in silence, barely hearing the guys jawing around me.
“Yo, Maddox,” Toshi called out from across the room. “You good? Or still picturing your girl in that dress from the club?”
I gave him a look that could’ve curdled blood. “Say that again.”
He just laughed. I didn’t.
By the time I hit the ice, I was already wound too tight. The first few drills were a blur—feet moving, hands on autopilot—but nothing landed. Passes were off. Shots had no bite. The puck felt like it had a grudge against me.
I heard someone mutter behind me after I missed my second shot in a row. “Jesus, he’s off today.”
No shit. I was off. Because instead of thinking about the play, I was thinking about her. Kennedy. Her silence. That tight smile. The way she said she was fine but wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The whistle blew sharp, and Coach’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Maddox. Off.”
I skated over, jaw set. “I’m good.”
“You’re benched,” he said flatly. “You wanna skate like your head’s somewhere else, that’s fine. But not here. Not two days before a game.”
Someone behind me snorted. I didn’t care who.
“Fuck off,” I muttered under my breath as I skated off the ice, stripping my gloves off finger by finger before I hurled them at the boards.
Something was wrong. And I wasn’t going to wait around another second pretending like everything was okay.
As soon as my skates hit the rubber mat, disappointment churned in my gut like acid. Not just because I’d screwed up—hell, that happened. But because this week mattered. The game against Gary’s team wasn’t just another notch on the schedule. It was personal. And I was skating like I had my damn laces tied together.
The locker room buzzed behind me, but I felt detached from it—like I was watching the whole thing through a pane of glass. We were supposed to be dialed in, locked and loaded. Instead, I was coming apart at the seams.
Coach walked over, arms crossed, his usual unreadable stare locked right on me.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Not barked. Asked. Which was worse. “You’re not focused today.”
“I’m fine,” I said, too fast, too sharp. The kind of fine that wasn’t fine at all.
His eyes narrowed like he could smell the lie. “Doesn’t look fine.”
I held his gaze, jaw tight. “I’ll figure it out.”
I didn’t want to talk about Kennedy. Or the video. Or how it felt seeing her yanked into the spotlight like that—spun into someone else’s story without her permission. I didn’t want to admit that I was thinking about her face when she lied to me this morning—eyes too big, smile too careful. I knew she was holding something back, and I’d let her.
Because I was scared if I pushed, she’d break.
Practice kept rolling around me, sticks clashing, blades cutting the ice, laughter echoing off the glass. Normal noise. But it felt distant. Like I wasn’t even there.
The knot in my chest just kept getting tighter.
I shoved my helmet back on and hit the ice again—not because Coach told me to, not because I had something to prove—but because if I didn’t skate, I’d explode.
I needed to move. To hit. To bleed.
