I laugh, shaking my head. “Pretty sure that’s not how the saying goes, but close enough.”
We end up ordering pizza and scrolling through Netflix until we settle on the new season ofOuter Banks.For a few hours, greasy food, soda, and Summer’s running commentary are enough to dull the ache in my chest.
Chapter Eighteen
Clay
The rink wakes up before the rest of the town. I tell myself that’s why I’m here, because I’ve always liked the quiet before the noise. The truth is, I haven’t slept since I left Briar Creek.
The only sounds in the arena are the lights overhead and my breath fogging the air. The cold cuts through my jacket, but I don’t feel it. I’m numb. I guess that’s better than thinking about the way I left her—no goodbye, just a ticket on her dresser and my hoodie folded beneath it. I told myself it was for her, but maybe I just wanted to leave a piece of me behind.
I know she was upset. She didn’t say it, but I could tell from her short text thanking me. That was it. She didn’t follow up, and I didn’t reach out again. Not until I know what I’m doing next.
I rip a strip of tape from the roll and wrap my stick tightly. Behind me, skates scrape across the floor, the locker room door bangs open, and sticks clatter against their racks. The noise quiets when the guys see me. I keep my head down, focus on the tape, but the whispers still manage to slip through.
I was offered the interim position a week ago. It’s not permanent, but it’s something—a foot in the door if I can prove I deserve it. I needed to refocus and get my head straight. If I want any shot at the assistant coaching job next season, this is where it starts. One mistake, and I’m done before I even get started.
“Came back too early,” someone mutters near the bench.
“Blew it,” another says under their breath, but not low enough.
The sting hits quick, but I can’t argue. They’re not wrong. Everyone knows how it went down. My first injury sidelined me. I pushed too hard, came back before I was ready, and tore it again. The second one ended everything.
That follows me everywhere I go—the failed comeback, the guy who couldn’t stay healthy, the one who fell off the map. Now I’m here at Kolmont, wearing a whistle instead of a jersey, trying to prove I can still be useful to the game that left me behind.
I bite down on the whistle and let the sound tear through the rink. “Line it up,” I call out.
Skates scrape, gear rattles, and the guys hustle into place. I don’t give them time to think.
“Quick passes. Stay tight. Eyes up.”
They fall into rhythm fast, moving clean and sharp. I walk the edge of the ice, hands clasped behind my back to keep them steady. Control—that’s all I’ve got left to hold on to.
Still, the whispers don’t stop.
Kolmont must be desperate.
The rink’s supposed to be my quiet. The one place that still feels like mine.
Across the way, Sebastian Tully leans against the rail. Big donor. The kind who likes to make sure everyone knows it. Designer jacket, perfect hair, and that fake, practiced smile. He’s shaking hands, laughing too loudly, and already acting like he owns the place.
The players notice. Focus slips. Eyes drift his way instead of staying on what they’re doing. One kid even stumbles when Tully tosses him a nod.
My jaw tightens. I blow the whistle again, harder. The sound cuts through the air, enough to snap their attention back.
I grab a puck and send it flying. The crack echoes through the rink, pulling everyone’s attention back to me.
“Again,” I bark. “You think anyone’s giving you wins if you can’t make a clean pass? Tighten it up.”
They reset—sharper this time. The movement smooths out, steady and controlled.
But I can still hear him.
Tully’s laugh cuts through the cold, pulling every eye his way again. Then a voice from the bench—low, but not quiet enough.
“You read it?”
“Yeah. Said Barlowe came back too early. The knee was never right. Blew it ’cause he couldn’t wait.”
