“You good?” I say, because checking in on him has been on my list.
“Yeah.” He sits down, pulling gear out of his bag. “You?”
“Yeah.”
The silence continues until Luca comes in talking about someone’s Instagram story, and Theo shows up behind him with his hair damp from a shower he already took, which makes Seb and me look at each other.
“Pre-practice shower,” Theo says, catching the look. “Helps with mental clarity.”
“You smell like a Bath & Body Works store,” Luca says.
“Thank you.”
Theo drops onto the bench and starts taping his stick. Then, without any lead-up, he straightens his spine, lowers his chin, narrows his eyes, and does the Coach Franklin impression he’s been trying out for the last few weeks.
“Gentlemen, we are not going to lose to a team that thinks matching ties make them a program,” he says, in the exact cadence Coach uses.
Luca loses it and Seb’s jaw goes sideways, which is Seb trying not to laugh. A couple of the sophomores who are filing in crack up, and even I feel the tug of a smile. Only Niko doesn’t respond, walking in and looking at us like we’re idiots.
The knot eases, because it’s one moment where everything feels normal.
But a second later, the tightness returns, so I stand up. “Let’s go.”
Seb looks sideways at me. “Mason’s not here yet.”
I shrug, and we hit the ice. I run the session hard, because if I’m skating, I’m not thinking about Sloane and Mason. We run faceoff reps, breakout patterns, and the new neutral-zonestructure we mapped out yesterday. The guys respond, and it’s the best practice in months.
Then Mason shows up.
A late player usually comes through the tunnel fast and contrite. But Mason strolls like he’s walking into a bar, steps onto the ice and slots into the drill mid-rep without looking at me or saying a word to the guys.
“Get in line, Cross,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
“Yeah, yeah.” He slides into the rotation as Coach Franklin watches from the bench.
He’s been like this since the dinner at Ironwood House. Louder in the room, looser on the ice, with an ease to him that reads as confidence but feels deliberate and pointed, like the charm is aimed somewhere.
He’s also playing for himself — taking the puck wide when the system calls for the outlet, showboating on zone entries, ignoring my line calls — but doing it all with just enough plausible deniability that calling him out would make me look like the one with the issue.
So I push the tempo harder, trying to catch him out, but all I do is make some of the other guys struggle. Seb — the biggest guy but not the fittest — is the first one to get gassed, and more follow pretty soon after him.
Then Mason goes after Theo when he misses a pass.
“Jesus, Ward,” Mason says, loud enough for the guys nearby to hear. “Do you want to try next time?”
I look over. Theo’s face has gone flat, his jaw tight and his eyes downcast. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be angry, because the guy who said it is older and better and maybe this is just how it works.
A couple of the older guys look at me.
Cross. Cool it. He’s a freshman.
I’ve said some version of it a hundred times.
The words are right there, and I get as far as opening my mouth, then close it again. Because if I go at Mason, Mason will come back at me, and whatever he comes back with might be about Sloane and him and the kitchen.
He isn’t the only one who’s changed since the time he spent alone with her.
So I call the next drill.
