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I know without looking at our captain that Clarkson isn’t keen on staying behind later than he needs to. I’m sure he’s got better places to be than here with me. He’s been kicking ass all day without even trying and could probably do each play Coach calls out in his sleep.

Clarkson hefts a sigh. “Got it, Coach.”

“Got it,” I murmur.

We do one more play, this time without me fucking it all up, before Coach dismisses the rest of the team to go about the rest of their days. Ice baths. Hot showers. Rest.

Berkley nudges me once in passing, and a few others—Smith Miller, and our other defensemen, Isaac Nelson—give terse nods as they disappear from the rink.

When it’s just me and the captain, I tug off my helmet and slick back my sweaty hair. I’m due for a cut but I’ve been too busy to schedule it in. “Sorry you’re stuck with me.”

Clarkson hasn’t been a very talkative guy lately, which means something must have gone down with Belle. I’ve learned by now that he clams up when they get into fights. Even the guys have commented on his bitchy mood whenever they get into it about something stupid.

He hasn’t bad mouthed me or praised me today, so it’s hard to read him. Usually, I can get him to grunt in acknowledgement or dip his head in greeting, but his facial expression has been stoic at best since he arrived at the arena. The most he’s done is stifle a smile on the rare occasion one of us cracks a joke, and it’s obvious he’s not fully paying attention when he does react.

“It isn’t a big deal. Working on a few of your weaker plays will help us in the long run,” he finally says. “You need to build up your speed a little more. I can give you a cardio training routine that seems to work for some of the other guys. My trainer put it together for us for the off season to keep us in shape.”

I go for a run almost every morning so long as the weather cooperates and spend a lot of time in the weight room at the gym located in the basement of my apartment complex. They have a nice private facility that’s usually not too crowded and only available for residents’ use. I’d be lying if I said I’ve cemented a routine. Lately, my mind has been elsewhere. Mom. Olive. It’s making it harder to focus on what’s in front of me.

“I never used to suck this bad,” I feel the need to tell him. He saw me last season. I was decent. Definitely no expert on the ice, but better than this. God only knows what he thinks of my performance. During game days I’m usually hyper focused onone thing only. Winning. I know where to look, where not to, and how to drown out the noise and taunts from the opposing team and the fans that come to see us.

Practice prepping for the preseason games has been different. I’ve been slower than everybody else, messing up simple maneuvers, and I have nobody to blame but myself.

He lifts a shoulder. “None of us were necessarily top of our game when we were new.” He must see the dejected look on my face when he adds, “For what it’s worth, you’re a good player. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. The guys may not act like it, but they don’t mind you.”

Them liking me seems a bit like a stretch, so I murmur, “I appreciate the lie.”

A smile threatens to lift his lips. “Look, I’ll let you in on a secret. When you’ve got shit on your mind, no matter how small, it’s going to mess up your game. You can’t go out on the ice with any type of stress on your shoulders. It’s going to distract you and slow you down. I’ve seen your tapes with Coach before. I’ve seen it firsthand on the ice. You’re good. You know it. I know it. Coach knows it. You’re better than you’re showing out here.”

The truth grates on me. “I don’t know hownotto be stressed. This opportunity is huge.” He has no idea what’s riding on this, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him. But what will that do? Pity gets me nowhere. Practice will. And the harder he pushes me out here on the ice, the better I’ll get. “We get one shot to make it.”

Clarkson shakes his head. “That’s not true. We have as many shots as we need to make it work. Look at me. I didn’t start on the Penguins. I definitely never thought I’d come here to play when I got drafted. But just because it didn’t work out in Chicago doesn’t mean I haven’t built something good here. Our standings are a hell of a lot better than my old teams are rightnow, and I probably never would have made captain if I hadn’t left. Sometimes shit happens and we have to make the best of it.”

I nod absentmindedly, knowing there’s a lot of truth in that. Any team could have asked me to be part of the minor league and work my way up when they thought I was ready. But I’d had big offers from the national teams instantly. They wanted me for a reason—knew I was ready for everything that would come.

“Coach is a hard ass but a good man. He’s going to beat you up a little verbally, but it’s for good reasons. He wouldn’t have fought for you to be on this team otherwise.”

I meet his eyes and see the genuine nature of the words spoken between us. “I needed that,” I tell him quietly, shaking my head and glancing around the empty rink. “I don’t want to mess up, Clarkson. I can’t.”

He nudges my chest. “Then gear up. Let’s do a few drills and see what we can work with. But I meant what I said, O’Conner. Whatever or whoever is giving you that glazed look needs to be dealt with or you’ll keep messing up. Your focus right now needs to be one hundred percent on hockey. Get me?”

A grim feeling weighs on my stomach. “But what about you?”

He stares at me.

“It’s none of my business, but you’ve obviously got something on your mind today too.”

Clarkson’s head cocks. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. Only one of us is playing shitty on the ice. It ain’t me.”

Touche.

Hours later, my body hurts more than it ever has before. I’ll be feeling it all week even after I take the hottest damn shower of my life and icing every joint currently screaming at me, but Clarkson looks impressed with the effort I put in. He smacks the same shoulder that got slammed into the wall during our one on one, snickering at my wince when I roll it.

“See you Friday, man,” he calls out after me, not bothering to look back. Beating me up a little helped ease whatever stress tensed his muscles, because he seems in better spirits. So, I’ll call that a win. Even if it leaves me hobbling like an eighty-year-old rather than a kid fresh out of college.

I think about the money this career pays and remember why I’m putting myself through this physical torture.

More specifically, who I’m doing this for.