Black jacket, whistle, cap pulled low. Controlled. Focused. He corrected Milo. Spoke to Grant. Drew something on the board with gloved fingers. He did not look destroyed.
He also did not look at me unless he had to.
I should have been grateful.
Instead, my brain tried to murder me with interpretations.
If he looked normal, maybe nothing happened.
If he looked normal, maybe everything happened and he was just that good at locking it away.
If he didn’t look at me, maybe he regretted it.
If he didn’t look at me, maybe he was protecting me.
If, if, if.
I missed a pass from Benny because I was busy having a courtroom drama in my skull.
The puck clipped my blade and skittered away.
“Jace,” Declan called.
Not harsh. Just enough.
I snapped back so fast it almost hurt.
He pointed his stick toward the lane. “First read. Not third.”
Right. Hockey. Structure. Here was the thing in front of me.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Roman, from the crease, tapped his stick twice on the ice. Not obvious. Not a big heroic friend gesture. Just a sound. A cue.
First read.
The next rep, I forced myself to track only what mattered. Puck carrier. Weak-side D. Benny’s hips opening for the pass. My feet under me. Breath in on the turn, out when I released.
Clean.
Then again.
By the second half of practice, I was sweating hard enough that the anxiety had less room to run. Not gone. Never gone like that. But quieter under the physical work, pinned down by drills and whistles and the simple fact that if I didn’t pay attention, a puck could take out my teeth.
At one water break, I made the mistake of glancing toward the bench where my bag sat in the tunnel.
My phone was in there.
Maybe there was a message.
Maybe there wasn’t.
Roman glided past and bumped my shoulder with his.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
