Page 41 of Grizz

Physically, I’m on the ice.I’m skating and moving, but mentally?I disappear into that vortex where nothing exists except angles and instincts and the next play.It’s the closest thing I have to a religion, the only place where everything makes sense.

But tonight, I can’t get there.

Every shift feels a little off.Every time my skates dig into the ice, every time the puck touches my stick, every time I’m supposed to feel that surge of instinctive certainty… I feel something else.Or someone else.

Fucking Daisy.

It’s like she’s sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, distracting the parts of me that are usually bulletproof.And it’s starting to irritate me, because if there’s one place I can’t afford to be diverted, it’s on the ice in the middle of a game.

I chase down a loose puck along the boards and get shouldered by one of their defensemen, but instead of letting that spike my adrenaline, all I hear is Daisy’s voice.I hear her laugh, feel her breath against my mouth.

The whole period I’m consumed by this.

I’m half a second late on reads.And in hockey, a half second late is death.I’m a stride off in the neutral zone.I keep overthinking simple plays.

Between whistles, I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off.I tug at my jersey.I try to get mean, to get pissed.

But nothing sticks.

Midway through the second, we’re battling in the Cougars’ zone, puck bouncing around.There’s a scramble in front of the net—bodies crashing, sticks swinging, chaos in motion.I fight my way through it, fire a shot that rings off the post, and just as I’m bracing for the rebound—

Boom.

A Cougars defenseman plows into me and cross-checks me square in the chest.Hard.

It knocks the wind out of me and I stumble back, vision blinking in and out for a split second.

And then everything goes still.

I look up at him.

He’s smirking, a toothless grin, looking down at me.He expects a reaction.He wants one badly.Like every other guy in this league who’s figured out you can goad me into a penalty if you push the right buttons.

And normally he’d be right.

Normally I’d swing, shove, grab, drop my gloves and make him regret even thinking about touching me.

Normally I’d bury him, but this time… I just stare at him.

My fists stay at my sides.No swing, no shove—only a stare that feels foreign even to me.

His smirk falters and confusion cracks through it.He expected fire and got nothing but silence.My heartbeat is steady, not the usual war drums, and I keep waiting for the indignant rage to take over.

It never comes.

The ref skates in, whistles shrieking.“Cut the shit, you two!”But there’s nothing happening.Even the ref is awestruck I haven’t started swinging at the guy.

The Cougars defenseman backs away, still watching me like he’s waiting for the punch line.I don’t do a thing, just stare at him, and the only thing running through my head isn’t revenge or rage or the next play.

It’s the way Daisy looked last night when I kissed her senseless and I’m fucking furious with myself that I’ve let this woman get under my skin and into my head this way.

Tanner skates up beside me, eyes wide behind his visor.“What the hell was that?”

I don’t offer an answer because I don’t have one, turning my back on my line mate and heading toward the bench.The ref drops the puck and play resumes.The game marches on without me, and I sit with the realization of knowing that I’m not into it.

It never gets better and I never regain my footing.Everything is off and by the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m ready for this entire day to be over.

We lose 3–1, and everyone knows I wasn’t myself out there.No one says it, but I see it in the side glances as we sit in the locker room together, the way Coach slammed his clipboard so hard the plastic cracked.