“Special teams,” he barks. “Power play. Kill. Move the puck, or I’ll make you regret being born.”
Weston mutters, “That escalated quickly.”
Kai lines up at center ice for the faceoff rep because, of course, he does. Captain. Center. He’s the one Coach trusts to set the tone.
He looks at our unit, eyes sharp.
“Quick,” he says. “One touch. Don’t overhandle.”
His gaze lands on me for half a beat too long.
Like he knows my hands aren’t the only thing that’s been late.
We run the look.
I work the half wall like I’ve done a thousand times—shoulder checking, reading pressure, switching my feet to keep my hips open, feeling the penalty killer close in.
I bump it down low.
Kai takes it, draws a man, pops it back to me.
I send it across the seam.
It’s clean.
It’s fast.
It’s hockey the way it’s supposed to be—simple and sharp.
Shot from the other side.
Asher kicks out the rebound in the next rep and resets without any drama, like he’s built out of the same material as the crease.
Coach nods once. Baseline achieved.
Then he turns the screw.
Conditioning.
He blows the whistle and points. “Line it up.”
We skate. Hard.
It’s the kind of work that strips everything down until all you can feel is lungs and legs and the burn in your throat.
It should clear my head.
It almost does.
But even as my vision goes edge-blurry and sweat drips into my eyes, I still feel her presence like a pressure point.
Like a question I keep refusing to answer.
The locker room hits like a wave—music, laughter, chirps, gear clattering like it’s the soundtrack of our lives.
Weston drops onto the bench dramatically. “I have passed away.”
Kai doesn’t even look up while he unties his skates. “Do it quietly.”
