You ready?
I nod, lying.
Kai’s mouth twitches, but it’s enough to make Weston perk up like a dog that just heard a squeaky toy.
“Holy shit,” Weston says, delighted. “Mercer smiled. Somebody call the school paper.”
“I didn’t smile,” Kai says.
“You did. I saw it,” Weston insists.
Asher exhales slowly. “Can we not do this before I’ve had any coffee?”
“We don’t need coffee,” Weston says. “We run just fine on childhood trauma and protein.”
Coach’s whistle slices through the rink. “Regroup!”
We snap into the first drill—neutral-zone regroups into controlled entries. Tape-to-tape passes. Head up. Feet moving. Coach wants the puck moving faster than your thoughts.
I can do that.
The puck snaps between us like a conversation in another language I’m fluent in. I take a clean pass from Weston, touch it once, and send it straight at the net.
Asher’s there, just like he always is. The puck hits his pads with a dull thud and dies.
Coach doesn’t say anything. Just nods like that’s the bare minimum and anything less is a disappointment.
“Again!”
We run it again. And again. And again.
My lungs burn. My legs start filing formal complaints. And finally—finally—my brain goes quiet.
For a few minutes, the only thing that exists is the feel of ice under my skates and the familiar ache in my muscles that tells me I’m alive.
It’s a relief in the most messed-up way. I shouldn’t have to run myself into the ground to get a few minutes of peace from my own thoughts, but here we are.
“Corner battles!” Coach Graves claps his hands once, too cheerful for a man who clearly enjoys suffering. “Two on two. Richards, Bennett—you’re up first.”
Of course.
Coleson Richards is a newer transfer to Pacific Coast University. He’s good, I’ll give him that, but he’s also a cocky son of a bitch with zero control over his mouth. He likes to run it. Often.
Coach loves pairing us up because he thinks iron sharpens iron.
Kai hates pairing us up because he thinks Coleson is a liability.
Weston waits in line behind me, and I can feel him grinning before he even opens his mouth.
“Bennett’s about to get wrecked…” he sings under his breath.
“Weston,” I say without looking back, “I will end you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” he says, delighted.
Asher skates past us, not even bothering to hide the glare he throws Coleson before shifting it to Weston. “If you two are done flirting, some of us would like to practice so we can get out of here.”
Weston gasps like he’s been scandalized. “Ash, my man—are you jealous? There’s more than enough of me to go around.” Asher’s response is to tap his stick against the ice twice.
