Page 7 of Grizz

I don’t speak.I can’t.There’s a roaring in my ears I can’t quiet.

“I know you,” Miranda says somewhat gently.“You’re not built to play the game.You’re built to question it.When I hired you last year, I knew you were special, but I also made it clear… you had to play by the rules.Maybe it’s time to stop chasing exposure and start learning control.”

“What does that even mean?”I ask, hollow.

“It means… maybe don’t chase your next job in media.Maybe try something different, outside the blast zone.Somewhere you can train your instincts.Not as a journalist—” She pauses, like she knows the next part is going to hurt.“But as a fixer.”

I laugh, incredulous.“You want me to pivot from calling out power toprotectingit?”

“I want you to stay in the game,” she counters.“But for now?You’re better served to keep it off the record, in another industry.Rebuild.Learn how messy people work and how to manage them.Then you might have a greater appreciation for the boundaries you have to respect.”

Silence again.“I’m saying this because I care about you, Daisy,” Miranda adds.“I’ve been where you are—angry, but brilliant and hungry.Dangerous to those who don’t understand you fully.And if you don’t reroute soon, you’ll burn out before you ever get the chance to rise.”

“I’m… I don’t know what to say.”

Miranda exhales softly.“I truly wish you the best of luck.”

I grip my phone tighter, as if that’ll stop the shaking in my hand.“Don’t do this,” I say softly.

But the line has already gone dead.

Chapter 3

Grizz

TheViperspracticefacilityis my home away from home.I walk down the hall, the walls lined with motivational slogans in bold black and green block letters:Relentless.Unbreakable.Earn Every Inch.A digital board near the workout room entrance tracks player metrics in real time—heart rates and VO2 max, among others—an algorithm’s idea of who’s hot and who’s fading.

I head straight to my stall and change into my gear without speaking to anyone.Getting geared up before practice is a ritual—half muscle memory, half quiet meditation.It starts slow, with guys trickling into the locker room in sweats and backward caps, earbuds in, coffee cups in hand.

Some start by taping their stick blades first, wrapped tight and precise as though it’s a personal signature.Others begin with compression shorts, knee sleeves, or lacing up their skates even before their pads are on.The room gradually fills with the sounds of Velcro fastening, tape tearing, laces tightening as they screech along rivets, shin pads thumping onto legs, and the rhythmic snap of someone re-taping their stick.

Guys sit in front of their stalls, heads down as they slide on base layers, then shoulder pads, elbow pads, pants.The gear goes on in a practiced order, always the same—left, then right, or vice versa, depending on superstition.Some joke through it, others stay locked in, staring at the floor.

Once ready for practice, I hit the ice.

“If it isn’t Grizz McAvoy,” Tanner chirps as he skates past me, flipping a puck in the air.“The man, the myth, the felony.”Tanner’s the one guy on the team who sees through me, understands who I am.

“Morning to you too, Casanova.”I loosen my neck with a roll.“You look like you slept in last night’s conquest.”

He winks.“I did.Her name was—hell, not like that matters… or I even remember.What matters is she’s a certified Pilates instructor and has incredible endurance… and so does her best friend—”

“Spare me the details.”

“Hey, Grizz, you brought it up.Go grab me a water bottle, I’m thirsty.”

I can’t help but chuckle.Tanner’s the only guy on the team with the balls to chirp me and the talent to survive it.He’s also got an uncanny ability to deflect heat, a useful trait I’ve sort of learned but haven’t mastered.

I grab a water bottle from the bench and toss it to Tanner.“I passed Langley in the hall,” he says with a pointed look.Tanner knows that I’ve got a scheduled come-to-Jesus meeting with the owner of our team.I had no clue he was back from his travels, but truthfully, I hadn’t thought much about it.It’s going to be the same ass-chewing, and I’ve heard it all before.“He’s going to insist you clean up your act.”

“I don’t do choirboy, you know that,” I mutter, as I stickhandle a puck to warm up my mitts.

“No kidding,” Tanner says.“You do villain arc with bonus media implosion.I respect the brand.”

We skate a few hard warm-up laps, then the real drills begin.Finally, I’m back in my happy place, mid-practice, lost in the game that consumes and defines me.Coach puts us through the hard paces and after half an hour, all my muscles are burning.

As I ready for a two-on-one battle drill, the boards rattle with the tap of a stick.One of the team’s equipment managers motions for me from the tunnel.

Tanner whistles low.“Dead man skating.”