Calder’s jaw worked like he was chewing on rage. The veins at his temple stood out against the stubble. “Watch yourself.”
“Why? Because everyone’s watching already?”
His nostrils flared. He took a step forward, ice crunching beneath his boots. “You done?”
“Not even close.” The tremor in my voice wasn’t fear—it was something else, something meaner. “You stand up there pretending this is about discipline or drive, but it’s not. You don’t get to be hard on me to erase what you did.”
The silence that followed felt alive. No one moved. The sound of the ventilation system groaned through the rafters, loud and lonely. The puck under my blade ticked against the ice like a clock counting down a bad decision.
Calder didn’t blink. His mouth opened, then closed. Whatever he wanted to say, he buried it deep.
Someone coughed near the bench. Skates shifted uneasily.
“Locker room,” he clipped out finally, eyes still locked on me. “Now.”
I didn’t move. For five seconds, I stood there, staring him down, heart slamming, the whole world hanging in the space between us. Then I kicked the puck toward the boards. It smacked hard and died against the wall.
“I’m not your scapegoat,” I said, quieter but no softer. “You want a player, you’ve got one. You want to rewrite history, find someone else.”
I turned before he could answer, blades hissing as I cut across the ice toward the tunnel. Every stride felt like breaking surface after being held under too long.
The girls parted as I passed, their whispers washing after me, a string of static I didn’t bother to catch.
By the time the last whistle hit, I hadn’t moved from the room. My gear was soaked, pads sticking to my skin, helmet resting beside me like an apology I didn’t remember accepting.
The locker room filled and emptied in waves—laughter first, then the shuffle of skates on tile, the hiss of the showers.
Reese paused by the door, bag over his shoulder. “He wants you back on the ice.”
I blinked up at him. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.” She glanced toward the tunnel, winced. “Good luck, Dono.”
Kira’s hand brushed my shoulder as she passed. “Don’t let him eat you alive.”
The door closed behind them, and it was quiet again. Only the hum of the lights and the mechanical drip from the melting ice of my elbow pad. I strapped my helmet back on, tightened the chin guard till it hurt, and went.
Calder waited at center ice—hands on hips, clipboard gone. No puck, no stick in his own hand. Just that stare.
“You wanted a reason to fight,” he said. “Now you get one. Suicides. Goal line to line. Don’t stop till I say.”
I didn’t answer. Just skated to the stripe and set my feet.
“Go.”
The whistle cut through the cold, and I exploded forward. Sprint, stop, pivot, back again. My blades screamed across the grooves left by the earlier drills. Each stride tore at what was left of my lungs. My breath turned sharp and heavy inside the cage of my helmet.
He watched, silent except for the whistle. Every time it blew, I turned. Blue line. Red. Blue again. Goal. Repeat.
The rink dimmed at the edges after a while. The boards blurred. Thirty minutes stretched long and mean. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. When my thighs started to shake, I bit the inside of my cheek and kept going.
If he wanted to break me, he’d have to do more than yell.
The whistle finally died. I coasted to a stop, bent double, palms on my knees. Sweat dripped from the end of my nose, pattered on the ice like rain. My chest heaved, dragging air that felt too thick to swallow.
He stepped closer, voice low. “That enough for you?”
I leaned on my stick and stared at him through the cage. “You’re a coward.”
