"Oops," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Guess I forgot how slippery ice can be."
"Fuck you, Barnesy," twenty-seven spits, scrambling back to his feet.
Coach's whistle cuts through the tension. "Again! And keep it clean!"
Practice continues, but the energy has definitely shifted. The ice feels dangerous now, crowded with unspoken hostility. Every player watching me, waiting for me to screw up. It's familiar territory. I've been the villain on every team I've played for. This is just a homecoming.
During scrimmage, I find myself matched against Robinson and the team captain, McCoy—a veteran defenseman who is more intense than I even remembered. McCoy's been with the Blades for over a decade. Old school. Team first. Coach's favorite.
I cut between them, handling the puck with the casual confidence that's always come naturally to me. McCoy lunges, stick extended, but I skate past him, leaving him grabbing at air.
"Too slow, old man," I call over my shoulder, just loud enough for him to hear.
It's a stupid move. Unnecessary. But I can't help myself. This is how I survive—by making sure everyone knows I don't fear them, don't respect their stupid hierarchy.
McCoy catches up to me near the boards and delivers a crushing check that rattles my teeth. My back slams against the plexiglass, knocking the wind from my lungs. Through watering eyes, I see his face inches from mine.
"You haven't changed a bit, Barnesy," he growls. "Still the same selfish prick."
I bare my teeth in what might pass for a smile. "And you're still jealous of anyone with actual talent."
He shoves away from me, skating back into position. The scrimmage continues, but now it's personal. Every time I touchthe puck, someone's there, hitting harder than necessary, stick-checking more aggressively than the situation calls for.
I give as good as I get. When I score a beautiful top-shelf goal against Evan Daniels, I make a show of celebrating—arms raised, exaggerated fist pump. The message is clear: You can hate me all you want, but you can't deny I make this team better.
Coach watches from the boards, his expression unreadable. When he finally blows the whistle to end practice, his voice echoes across the ice.
"Decent effort. Tomorrow, 7 a.m. Don't be late."
In the locker room, the silence is thick enough to skate on. I strip off my gear, taking my time, making sure to take up more space than necessary. Someone has to break the silence, might as well be me.
"Glad to see you boys have been keeping in shape while I was gone," I announce to the room. "Though judging by today's practice, you could use some scoring lessons. Good thing I'm back."
Twenty-seven slams his locker. "Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up?"
"Not when I have something worth saying." I flash him a grin. "And I always have something worth saying."
"Yeah? Well nobody's listening." This from a younger player, probably trying to score points with the veterans by standing up to me.
I look around the room slowly, making eye contact with each player in turn. "Funny, you all seem to be listening pretty intently right now."
McCoy approaches, still half in his gear. "Let me make something clear, Barnesy. You're here because we're desperate for goals after Garrison went down. That's it. No one missed you. No one wants you here. You're a last fucking resort."
I stand, towel wrapped around my waist, facing him directly. "And yet here I am. Want to know why? Because I'm better than anyone else you could get. Because no matter what a pain in the ass you all think I am, I win games."
"You're also the reason we lost in the conference finals three years ago. Or did you forget that penalty in OT?"
The jab lands hard. That penalty—a stupid, impulsive cross-check that cost us the game and the series—was my last act as a Blade before being traded. It's still a sore spot.
"Ancient history," I say, though my jaw tightens involuntarily. "I've won a lot more games than I've lost."
"For yourself, maybe." McCoy's voice drips with disgust. "Never for the team."
I step closer, anger flaring hot. "You want to see what I can do for this team? Watch me this season. I'll carry your sorry asses to the playoffs singlehandedly if I have to."
"That's exactly the problem," a gruff voice cuts in from the doorway. Coach stands there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "You think you're carrying everyone else. That it's you against the world."
The room falls silent. Even I know to shut up when Coach starts speaking.
