Backcheck coverage. Two-on-one transitions. Penalty kills. Easy things that made sense when nothing else did.
I rewound the third period and watched her again. The rebound, the assist, the small nod after the final buzzer. No smile—just that steady, burning focus. She didn’t need me ruining what she’d built. Didn’t need my hands anywhere near her story.
I closed the laptop, leaned back, rubbed my jaw until it hurt. The ghost of her laugh still lived there somewhere under the bruising. Pathetic.
Another voice, quieter now,You don’t get to want this.
I looked at the wall clock. 6:47 a.m. Ice time at nine. That gave me two hours to turn back into the man everyone expected to show up. The one who knew better.
“She’s just a player,” I repeated, pacing the length of the room. “Just a fucking player. Get your head back in the game.”
The words finally rang solid. Cold enough to hold onto. I grabbed my clipboard and keys and left before doubt could follow.
The locker roomdoor clanged shut behind me and the noise swallowed the voice in my head. I hit the ice before the girls finished lacing up, whistle between my teeth, stopwatch in hand. A plan already laid out, every minute accounted for—no space for conversation, no space forher.
They trickled out, laughing, jostling. Then she stepped through the bench gate, helmet under her arm, cheeks pink from the cold. I looked past her, not at her.
“Warm-up laps. Ten. Go.”
The whistle sang and they scattered like startled birds. I watched every stride but never lingered where my eyes wanted to. Every time her line swung past the glass, I checked my watch instead. Professional. Detached. The picture of discipline.
Kira was sharp enough to catch on. She kept glancing between us when I barked correction. The kid had a fox’s smirk—like she’d found a secret. I made sure she didn't.
“Harder transitions!” I shouted. “If you’re breathing easy, you’re doing it wrong!”
I stalked the boards, clipboard raised, notes scribbled without meaning. Billie’s voice carried through the rink—commands to her line, quick, sure. She was better today. Cleaner, faster. Of course she was. She’d always push harder when someone stopped looking.
“Scrimmage,” I called. “Fifteen minutes, short shifts!”
Helmets tilted, sweat streamed, no one questioned the sudden change. I blew the whistle again before silence could open any space for memory.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her skate backward across center ice, stick tapping rhythm on the blade. She wanted direction. Feedback. I gave none. Called out other names instead.Good pass, Kira. Smart pivot, Hannah.I left her hanging in the middle of the play, exactly where I stood inside my own head.
The team noticed. The ice had a tension under it, a current that made every glide stiffer. I felt it and ignored it, pushing drills faster, shorter, meaner. Breath turned into mist and I pretended I couldn’t see hers.
When the scrimmage ended, I blew one last shrill note and walked straight off the ice. Clipboard tight under my arm, throat dry.
If I ignored it long enough, maybe it would undo itself. Maybe she’d fade back into the crowd like another jersey, another player. I almost believed it—until her laugh echoed off the glass and followed me down the tunnel.
The phone lit up before I made it past the locker room doors. Gideon Strong.
Of course. The one name guaranteed to kill whatever scraps of calm I had left.
I hit accept and leaned against the concrete wall, still holding my whistle. “You calling to congratulate me, boss? Team didn’t embarrass themselves today.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.” His voice carried that measured calm that meant something bad waited beneath it. “I’m hearing things, Calder.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Things?”
“Whispers. About you being distracted. Off your game. Sound familiar?”
I turned toward the empty rink, where skate marks still scarred the ice. “You know how rumors work,” I told him. “People need to talk about something.”
“Usually because there’s something to talk about.”
Silence stretched until I could hear the hum of the compressors below the ice. My jaw locked. “I’ve been focused. Every drill logged. Every stat improving.”
Gideon exhaled, a slow drag through his nose. “Focused doesn’t always look clean from the outside. A couple of scouts reached out—asked me if you were drinking again.”
