We run it again. And again.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Coleson chirps at a defenseman for missing a read.
Not playful chirping. Mean chirping. The kind that’s trying to make someone smaller.
Kai’s head turns just slightly, enough to cut him with a look.
Coleson grins, like he lives to push boundaries.
Coach blows his whistle. “Richards. You want to audition for captain?”
Coleson shrugs like consequences are optional. “Just trying to hold up standards, Coach.”
Kai’s voice is quiet, but it reaches anyway. “Standards aren’t the same as disrespect.”
Coleson’s smile tightens. “Yes, Captain.”
The rink goes still for half a second.
Then Coach barks, “Back to work.”
But something is different now, like the air remembers. Because Kai Mercer doesn’t speak unless it matters. And when he does, everyone listens.
I should be focused on the drill.
Instead, my brain flicks to Tyler Rushton. There is a similarity between him and Coleson. Tyler used to be a name I heard in passing, always paired with the way Kai gets sharper the week we play his team. The way Kai’s jaw locks like he’s swallowing glass. The way he hits harder and skates faster, like he’s trying to punish the ice itself. Now I know why.
Practice ends with conditioning.
We run line-to-line sprints until my lungs scrape and my legs go numb. It’s the kind of pain that makes your brain go quiet by force.
When the whistle finally blows, the locker room hits like a wall of noise. I don’t hear any of it.
I strip my gear off fast, moving on autopilot.
Kai’s a few stalls down, retaping his stick as usual. His posture is calm, but I know him well enough now to read the tension in his shoulders.
He isn’t done with me. I can feel it.
Weston flops onto the bench like he’s been shot. “I’m retiring. Effective immediately.”
Asher, sitting in his goalie gear like an actual mountain, says, “You announce this weekly.”
Weston clutches his chest. “It’s called commitment to the bit.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t have it in me.
I pull my shirt on, shove my gear into my bag, and try to pretend my phone doesn’t feel like a weight in my pocket.
She hasn’t messaged me today. I didn’t expect her to, but foolishly I held onto a small piece of hope. I keep telling myselfI’ll give her space, but every minute she’s quiet feels like a door closing.
Kai stands.
Not a big motion. Just enough to shift the room around him.
“Bennett,” he says. “Walk with me.”
My stomach dips.
