"Well, don’t wear yourselves out before the whistle. Brass wants a show, not a stretcher."
"Noted," Coop called back. "But no promises."
The drill naturally dissolved into line assignments. I fell in with Coop, Mason, and Tanner for the first scrimmage shift. We rotated fast and clean, short shifts, tight control, no showboating.
Mason looked my way before the face-off—just a glance, like he was checking with me before the puck dropped. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Coop mirrored my coverage callon the fly. I didn’t need to ask twice. They weren’t just tolerating me out here. I was their teammate.
Halfway through the second period of the scrimmage, I took a quick shot that should've gone in but didn't. It hit Finn’s knee pad instead. I’d angled it just right—or so I thought. One twitch from him at the last second, and my shot was blocked.
After the whistle, Finn skated up beside me, pulling off his glove. "You twitch your elbow right before the release," he said, breath misting in the cold air. "It's like a neon sign for where you're going."
I blinked. "You serious?"
"Every time," he said. "You want to break the habit? We can work on it tomorrow before practice."
I hesitated for half a second. Then I nodded. "Yeah. That would be great."
His eyebrows lifted. "Didn't think you'd be the type to say yes."
"Didn't think I was either," I laughed.
After scrimmage, I caught sight of one of the rookies—Mason—sitting at the end of the bench, helmet off, jaw tight. He'd fumbled a pass that gave the other team a breakaway goal. Lost us the game.
Most of the guys were shrugging it off, already headed for the showers. But he looked like he'd just cost us a playoff spot.
I skated over. "Grab your stick."
He looked up. "What?"
"Let's run the drill again. You feed me. We keep at it until it clicks."
Mason's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
Coop skated by, grinning. "Hell yeah. I'm in, too. Let's go."
We stayed out there an extra twenty minutes. By the end, Mason's passes were crisper. The tightness in his shoulders had eased, his focus sharper, his confidence back.
And mine? A little more earned.
Coach clapped me on the shoulder as I stepped off the ice. "Press wants a word when you're done," he said, jerking his thumb toward the far hallway. "Nothing serious. Just be civil."
I nodded, peeled off my helmet, and headed toward the locker room, already bracing for the usual questions about rehab, redemption, and whatever storyline they were recycling this week.
I stepped out into the corridor, towel slung around my neck and hair still damp from the shower.
The Hallway was quiet. No reporters. No boom mics. Just the hum of vending machines and the Zamboni. I almost let out a breath.
Maybe they bailed.
And that's when she stepped out from behind the corner
Vanessa.
Leaning against the wall like she owned it, arms crossed, polished and camera-ready in a slate-gray blazer and that practiced smile that always meant trouble.
"Colton," she said, all warmth and charm. "You've been busy."
I blinked. "You following the beat now, or just stalking me for fun?"
