"I always play angry," I reply automatically, because anger is safe, anger is familiar.
"Not like this," he says.
The words land heavier than they should because they’re true.
I look up at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means you’re chasing something instead of reading it," he says evenly, like he’s talking to a man he respects and not a teammate he’s trying to manage.
I hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then look away because I don’t want to give him anything he can file under concern.
"I’ve got it," I say.
Slade doesn’t argue.
He just looks unconvinced, and that irritates me more than if he’d pushed.
Second period, I force myself into discipline again with short shifts, clean decisions, and minimal risk… the way I should have been playing all along. For a few minutes, it works well enough that I almost believe I’ve pulled myself back into control.
Then one of their forwards clips me late after the whistle, not hard enough to justify retaliation, but just enough to needle the part of me that hates being tested.
I turn and cross-check the player right in front of the ref, but I couldn’t care less. He had it coming, and tonight is not the night to fuck with me.
The whistle blows immediately.
As I skate to the box, I keep my face neutral, but under my skin everything feels too tight. The camera follows. It always follows. The commentary will start building the narrative because that is what the world does when it smells weakness.
Popovich is struggling to keep his composure.
I sit in the box and stare ahead, refusing to look up at the screen, refusing to watch my own mistake replayed for entertainment.
The puck drops and they move it fast.
Goal.
I close my eyes for a second because that one is on me too, and I can feel the team’s frustration even through the glass.
And for what?
For a woman I told myself meant nothing.
We lose.
Not by a landslide, but enough that the bus ride back to the hotel will be quiet and heavy, and Coach doesn’t waste time with speeches afterward. He stands in front of the room, hands onhips, and his gaze lands on me with the kind of disappointment that feels like being watched by someone who expected better.
"You’re forcing it," he says.
"I’m fine," I reply, even though the lie tastes bitter.
"Then start playing like it."
There’s no anger in his tone, and that makes it worse.
Because anger would mean he thinks I can fix it quickly.
This sounds like a warning.
The locker room empties slowly, the noise draining away until it’s just the low hum of the building and the faint clatter of a lone stick being tossed into a bag. I sit longer than I need to, my gear half off, my thoughts running in circles I don’t want to acknowledge.
