I was still processing the emotional whiplash when Pickle slid into the stall next to mine, full of rookie energy.
"Dude. That was epic."
"What was?"
He lowered his voice. "That whole Coach thing. The threat. The speech. You didn't even flinch. You're like… a legend, man."
I stared. "Are you twelve?"
"Almost twenty-one."
I raised an eyebrow.
"In December."
I sighed and pulled off my practice socks, hoping that would end the conversation.
"I watched all yourLove on Iceepisodes last year." He whispered the words like he was in a confessional booth. "My sister made me, but, like… you were totally misunderstood."
"Wow, thanks for the validation, Pickle. Nothing says real hockey like a public redemption arc approved by siblings of preteens."
He didn't flinch. "You made sequins look sick. Also, my mom had a crush on you."
I laughed. "Tell your mom I say thanks."
"Already did. She asked if you're single."
I stared at him.
He grinned, stood, and clapped me on the back. "You got this, man. Third line? That's where the real mess lives."
And then he was gone, skate guards clacking down the hallway. I exhaled slowly, tying the drawstring on my warm-ups.
It wasn't much, but hell, maybe a new kind of disorder would be a good thing.
The third line didn't get theme music or spotlight intros.
We got Coach's half-snarl, a clipboard with names crossed out, and the eternal understanding that no one expected much from us unless it involved blood or overtime desperation.
Perfect.
I hit the ice with Pickle on my right and a guy named Kowalczyk at center, and the three of us skated like Coach handed us a group project due in twenty minutes—tons of hustle and blind trust.
Coach dropped the puck himself. No speech. Only a whistle and a glare.
Game on.
I'd forgotten how good it felt to move—really move. Not for the cameras or the crowd. It was an attempt to prove I wasn't a joke. I wanted to feel my body doing something right for once.
The blade caught just right, and the pass curved where I intended. I didn't think about "Puck Life", sequins, or Evan's spreadsheet of my sins.
I skated.
We rotated lines. The second shift gassed me, but I rode the high.
Third time out, I got caught on a sloppy pinch—my fault, too aggressive—and Coach's whistle shrieked across the ice. I muttered a curse, looped back to reset, and caught Evan gliding backward through the neutral zone.
The puck was headed straight for him. So was a meathead winger from the other side.
