Page 14

I check my phone. Practice starts in twenty minutes.

“Shit.”

I haul myself out of the chair, stripping off my shirt as I head to the bathroom. The shower’s quick — soap, water, done. No time to waste.

Back in my room, I throw on my Blackridge tee and the same pants.

The rink’s cold, even with all the gear on. I lace up my skates, listening to the chatter around me. The guys are hyped, laughing and joking like it’s just another day.

For them, maybe it is.

“Yo, Cal!” Tyler calls from across the locker room. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a grin. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, smirking. “Just makin’ sure. You looked like you were ready to murder someone during warmups.”

“Just focused, man. Someone’s gotta keep you assholes in line.”

That gets a laugh, and I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension.

Practice is brutal, but that’s how I like it. Fast drills, harder hits, no room for mistakes. Coach isn’t even yelling much today, which means we’re doing alright.

By the end of it, I’m dripping sweat, lungs burning.

“Nice work, Caleb,” Coach says as we’re heading off the ice. “Keep this up, and you might just make it to the NHL after all.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

It’s the kind of thing that should light a fire under me. Instead, it feels like a reminder of everything riding on this season.

Back home, I collapse on the couch, scrolling through my phone. Maya hasn’t messaged me since the call dropped. No surprise there.

I open Instagram, scrolling aimlessly until I come across a post from Zane. He’s grinning, covered in grease, standing next to a shiny red car.Another restoration complete!the caption reads.

Remy’s in the background, holding up two thumbs and looking adorable as hell.

I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, staring at the ceiling.

Zane’s happy. Really fucking happy. He’s got his dream job, his dream girl. He’s done with hockey, done with all the pressure and expectations.

And me?

A new guy is going to be coming in to replace Zane, my girl is on the other side of the world, and my business class is going to shit.

But none of that matters. Not really.

Because if I can just get through this season, I’ll have my shot at the NHL.

And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I spend the next three hours sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram reels. Nothing new. Same stupid trends, same over-edited selfies.

I sigh, tossing my phone onto the cushion next to me. My hand hovers over the laptop, and I debate opening it again. Maybe Maya’s internet will magically start working. Maybe she’ll pick up, and we can finish what we started.

Yeah, right.

Instead, I grab my phone again, searching for something — anything — that’ll take my mind off the clusterfuck of my day.