“And I just taught you how cat-like reflexes will ensure this pretty face lights up the boards way more than your ugly mug that keeps smashing into the ice,” Landon shot back, grinning.
I finished my rep and glided to the boards, resting my gloves on top of the dasher. Sweat slid down my spine under the pads. The Cup banner hung above center ice, catching the light every time someone skated beneath it.
Five years in this jersey.
Two for Landon, and he was already stitched into the first line.
Coach blew the whistle one last time. “Bring it in.”
We gathered at center ice, sticks planted. Hunter pulled off his mask and shook out his hair.
“Good pace,” Coach said. “But don’t get comfortable. Last season is just a banner now. It doesn’t win you anything this year.”
Grayson nodded once. “We know, Coach.”
“Then show it,” Coach replied. His gaze moved across the circle and paused on me for half a beat before shifting on. “We have more to play for than ever before. If you thought people wanted to see us crash and burn last season, prepare to have that sentiment doubled.”
“We’re ready for it, Coach.” And Tucker fielded fist bumps from the guys in agreement.
Coach shook his head. “That’s not what it looked like on that internet stuff you kids keep doing. Cup tattoos? Your time would’ve been better spent in the gym, for God’s sake.”
“Aw, you hurt we didn’t invite you, Coach?” Landon’s eyes shone with laughter, and the guys soon joined in when it landed.
Coach’s laugh was rough along the edges. “Have your fun. When shit starts getting real out there, you’re going to want to remember what you’re playing for.”
We broke, tapping sticks against the ice as we peeled off toward the tunnel.
Landon skated backward in front of me, grinning through his mouthguard. “You joining us for the cool-off? Hunter’s buying.”
“Can’t tonight. I have… stuff.”
“Always with the stuff,” he said, and turned back around.
The scrape of blades echoed under the rafters as the guys filed off to the locker room, still jawing about who owed who a drink.
I kept my head down and followed the line.
The locker room was hotter than the ice had been, walls vibrating faintly from the pipes above. Skates clattered againsttile, sticks thumped into benches, the smell of tape and sweat clung to everything. Mason was laughing at something Landon said, his arm slung over Shawn’s shoulder. Landon’s grin stretched wide enough to cover half the bench, and the mouthguard made his voice garbled, but you could still hear the bite in it.
I slid onto my stall, and dragged my bag behind me. My skates scraped the floor once, twice. Pretending I was busy with my own thing didn’t work too well, and I found myself sneaking glances as they peeled out of their gear.
Hunter was stretching out, rubbing at his shoulder, and I caught the edge of his tattooed arm before he rolled onto the bench. Smooth, precise lines. The Cup. I could even make out the dates from this angle. Landon was admiring his bruises in the mirror, jersey over his head, flexing his “Cup arm” with pride. Every guy in here carried their story in ink. An announcement: I belong, I’m part of something etched in history.
I stuffed my gear into the bag and closed it. My fingers lingered on the zipper. Last night replayed in stabs. Sage’s words lodged themselves in my chest. She didn’t know me, but she wasn’t wrong when she guessed I’d taken myself out of the team without being asked.
Instead of sticking around for the photos and camaraderie, I kept walking away. Never went out to catch drinks after practice. Never hung around to rag each other after a game.
The locker room emptied around me. Grayson clapped Shawn on the back and headed for the shower. Cash Money muttered some complaint at Tucker over the benching drill, and I could hear them disappearing, voices fading down the hall.
I pulled on my hoodie and zipped it halfway. My skates were off. My bag was closed. My truck was waiting. My apartment? Not tonight. Not right now.
I walked past the mirrors, catching glimpses of my reflection. Face flushed. Hair stuck up from my helmet. Eyes tired. Hands sticky with tape residue.
The street was quiet, almost empty. Frost Bank arena was dark now, lights spilling from the main doors onto wet asphalt. I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept walking. Sage’s voice haunted the edges of my thoughts, each word a small, precise jab: not being part of the team. I hadn’t realized how much it mattered—how much I’d let it slide in silence.
My truck rolled out of the lot, tires crunching against gravel at the curb. I didn’t think. Just turned the wheel, letting instinct guide me. When I got to a green traffic light, I paused. The way home was to the left, but after a second’s hesitation, I crossed lanes and swerved right.
Purple Rose was in darkness, the neon sign no longer flashing. It was late, but I figured I’d stand a good chance given everything being 24-hrs these days. As I pulled over, I saw Sage at the doors locking up for the night.
