“Good,” I hear myself say. “Been waiting for that one.”
Coach’s eyebrows rise. “You know someone on their team?”
“You could say that.”
“Personal?”
“Very.”
He nods slowly, like this explains something. “Keep it clean, Koa. I don’t need you starting fights and sitting in the box all game. Channel whatever this is—” he gestures at me, “—into playing. Use it. Don’t let it use you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get out of here.”
The locker room is chaos—guys stripping out of gear, chirping each other, music blasting from someone’s phone. The smell is ripe with sweat and that specific funk that comes from hockey equipment that never fully dries.
I head to my stall and start peeling off my pads. Everything aches in that good way that means I worked hard. My ribs protest when I lift my arms over my head to pull off my practice jersey, but I grit my teeth and power through.
“Yo, Koa.” Chase appears beside me, already showered and dressed. “You good, man?”
“Fine.”
“You’ve been playing like you’re possessed or some shit.”
I glance at him. “Problem?”
“Nah, just...” He scratches the back of his neck. “You know if you need to talk or whatever—”
“I’m good.” I turn away, making it clear the conversation’s over.
He gets the hint and backs off. The rest of the team gives me space too, reading the energy correctly. They don’t know what’s different about me, only that I’m unrecognizable from the version of myself who existed two weeks ago. Only Oxy remains my orbit, but he doesn’t say much.
I’m halfway through unlacing my skates when I sense her. Look up and there she is in the doorway, hood pulled up, coffeecup in hand, those brown eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room.
Lexi.
She’s been coming to practice this week, sitting in the stands with her coffee and her hoodie, watching me skate. Never says much after, just watches. But I feel her eyes on me every second I’m out there, and it makes me play harder.
Makes me want to show her what I’m capable of when the violence is sanctioned.
“Give us the room,” I say without looking away from her.
The guys exchange glances but don’t argue. They know better. Within two minutes the locker room empties, leaving just us and the smell of sweat and the distant sound of the ice resurfacer.
Lexi steps inside, letting the door close behind her. She takes a slow sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. I’m still in my compression shorts and pads, shirtless, sweat cooling on my skin.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“I can’t help it.”
I set my skate aside and stand, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t back up, doesn’t flinch. Just watches me approach with something that might be amusement in her eyes.
“How’d I do?” I ask, stopping close enough to feel her breath.
“Honestly?” She tilts her head. “You looked like you were trying to kill someone.”
“Maybe I was.”
