I reach the far line, pivot, and nearly lose my edge. Carson, who’s next to me, gives me a surprised look, his blue eyes going wide.
“You good, man?” he asks, then blows a lock of his shaggy dark hair out of his face.
I nod and keep going. “I’m good, man.”
Carson shrugs, and we’re right back to the game. I can convince Carson I’m okay—he’s a chill dude who takes these statements at face value—but I better not fuck up around Wilder or Jenson, or they’ll see right through me.
I make it back to the start, chest heaving, and drop into the next drill. Passing. We pair off—quick tape-to-tape passes down the length of the rink. I’m partnered with Wilder, looking every bit the lumberjack with his giant body, shaggy dark beard and hair. Wilder shouts, “Heads up!” and sends the puck flying.
It smacks my stick, but my grip’s too loose. It bounces off the blade and skitters away.
“C’mon, Jayce!” Coach snaps. “Wake up out there!”
My jaw locks. I nod, trying to shake it off, but my pulse spikes. Another rep. This time I catch it clean, but the second pass I send rockets too high. Jensen glances over from the next line, eyebrows lifted. He doesn’t say anything, but his Captain look is enough. I’m fucking up andeveryone’snoticing, Carson included. I dig the tip of my skate into the ice, frustration bubbling just under the surface.
We move into shooting drills next. I take my place in the rotation, watching one-by-one as pucks slam against Carson’s pads or ring off the posts. When it’s my turn, I circle wide, grab the feed, and rip a slap shot. It clangs off the crossbar and flies high. Again. Another miss.
“Keep it low!” Wilder calls. “You got this, bro.”
I breathe through my nose, reset, shoot again. This one hits Carson square in the chest. My stick feels heavier with every attempt. I know I’m better than this, but my focus is shredded.
Then comes the scrimmage. Blue jerseys versus yellow. I’m on blue. The whistle blows and chaos fills the ice—sticks clashing, blades carving lines across the surface. I chase the puck into the corner, body slamming into the boards with Zander. My stick catches it, but I fumble the handle, lose control for a second too long. Zander strips it and sends it up the ice.
“Move it, Jayce!” Jensen yells from center.
I nod, push after Zander, but my head’s not tracking the play right. The puck’s moving faster than my concentration. My muscles go through the motions automatically, but my brain’s running in so many directions I can’t stay focused.
Sutton. Again, I can’t stop thinking of Sutton. If I’m not dreaming about the sight of her blindfolded and spread out on the lounger next to my pool, then I’m instead thinking about how she so professionally dismissed my proposal and just walked out my door.
Damn. I hated seeing her go, but I loved watching her tight little ass as she left. I catch up just as Zander threads a pass across the slot — perfect setup — and I flinch, reacting a heartbeat late. The puck slides past me, seemingly in slow motion, untouched.
The whistle stops everything. My stomach twists. Fuck. Fuck! I shouldn’t have missed that. That was a rookie move and frustration and embarrassment crash through me. My head’snot in the game. It’s too caught up in all my other bullshit, and that’s not normal for me. When I’m on the ice, everything else doesn’t matter.
Except, today, I can’t shake that “everything else” like I usually can.
I skate to the bench, sweat dripping into my eyes, chest heaving.
Coach walks by, muttering, “Get your head in the game, or get off my ice.”
The words sting, but I deserve them. I grip the stick tighter, knuckles white against the tape. Thank God I was able to keep my shit together at last night’s game. Maybe it’s because the stakes aren’t as high for practice, but I can’t shake everything else enough to focus. That’s a real problem.
When the whistle blows again, I push off the bench and hit the ice, lungs burning, blades cutting deep. I don’t want to have to prove that I belong on this team the way I have to prove myself to my family. Forcing everything out of my head, I lock in on practice, praying I can get through the next few hours without falling flat on my face in front of the whole team.
After practice, everyone heads to the locker room. I drag my feet, following behind the rest of the team, feeling like absolute shit. Despite my determination to remain focused, I struggled the rest of practice and got an earful from Coach before he dismissed us all and stormed off to his office.
When I finally shuffle into the locker room, the guys are at their lockers or heading to the showers. Jensen looks up as I approach and frowns in concern.
“Hey, man, you okay?”
I release a long breath and shrug. “Yeah. My head’s just fucked up. I’ve got some personal stuff going on.”
“You don’t usually let those things get to you on the ice.” Jensen regards me for a long moment, his gaze serious. He’s an attentive guy and takes his duties as Captain very seriously. We were drafted to the Night Hawks the same year, and even back then I could tell he was going to step up and lead one day. “You want to talk about it?”
I release a humorless chuckle. “It’s rich family stuff. You’d probably get it, I know you’ve got rich family shit of your own…. but I sure don’t want to talk about it.”
Jenson nods, understanding as usual.
“Then how about a guys’ night?” Zander suddenly chimes in from where he’s standing in front of his locker, shedding his hockey gear. He runs a hand through his short dark hair, his emerald eyes sparkling with eagerness. “You all can come over to my place and hang out, play some video games. Get your mind off your personal stuff for a while.”
