The way she looked at me in the rink bleachers when the last thread of denial snapped and I became real.
I told her the truth.
And I still wake up every hour like I did something punishable, and maybe I did.
By the time my alarm goes off Tuesday morning, my eyes feel sandpapered from the inside. My chest has that tight, heldfeeling that usually shows up before a game. Except today isn’t a game day.
It’s worse.
It’s a normal day with a truth sitting in the middle of my life like a live wire.
I shower because it’s the closest thing I’ve got to restarting myself. Hot until my skin turns pink. Cold until my lungs seize. Hot again, like maybe I can trick my nervous system into choosing a different setting.
It doesn’t.
—
The guys drift in with the usual morning rhythm—half asleep, half feral. Weston is already narrating his own existence at a volume he insists is “normal.” Coleson has that too-smooth grin that says he woke up ready to be a problem. Asher’s in the crease stretching like he’s never had a bad night in his life.
Kai is there early because Kai isalwaysearly.
He stands at center ice with a coffee in hand and his helmet tucked under his arm, talking to Coach Graves in that low, efficient way he talks when he’s in charge. Not loud. Not showy.
Just absolute.
When Coach skates away, Kai’s gaze finds me like it’s magnetized.
Not angry.
Not suspicious.
Just…aware.
He does that small chin tip at me.You good?
I give him a nod that feels like lying with my whole face.
Kai doesn’t call me on it. He doesn’t do that in front of the guys. He just clocks it and files it away like a captain.
Like a brother.
Like a guy who’s going to ask later when there aren’t witnesses.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the rink. “Let’s go! White jerseys! We’re running breakouts, then special teams.”
Weston groans, mumbling under his breath. “Come on, Coach. We just did special teams.”
Coach doesn’t even turn his head. “Cooper, if you want to keep talking, I’ll make you run until you find God.”
Weston shuts up.
We start with flow drills—five-man breakout, D-to-D, center swinging low, wingers pushing the wall, quick touch up the boards and out. It’s not flashy. It’s the kind of hockey that looks simple until you’re the one trying to execute with your lungs burning.
Kai runs center, like he’s built for the middle of chaos. Head up. Stick quiet. Everything sharp.
He wins the first draw in the faceoff circle so clean it’s almost rude, snaps it back to our defenseman, then calls the breakout with one word like a command: “Go.”
I take off down the right side, timing my stride with the puck, and for a beat, the world narrows into the only language I’ve ever trusted completely.
