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I shrug like it’s no big deal, but it always is. “Yeah. He taught me things.”

That’s one way to put it.

The guy—Brody—grins and plops down beside me, lacing up like we’re best friends now. “Man, it must’ve been sick working with him up close. He came to one of my travel games when I was fifteen. Changed everything for me. You’re lucky.”

Lucky. Right.

I used to be like him once.

Before I knew better.

Before Dawson’s praise started feeling more like a leash.

I remember the first time he told me I owed him everything. I’d been benched for a minor slip-up—a turnover he should’ve taken the blame for—but instead, he lit me up in front of the staff. Later, he told me it was “character-building.” That I should thank him for it.

I thought it was normal. Part of earning your stripes.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I realized being mentored by Dawson Reid meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize in the mirror. Someone who smiled on command, agreed with the coach, and buried his instincts deep down.

Coach Dawson gave me a shot when nobody else would. That’s true. But the thing about lifelines? Sometimes they come wrapped in chains. I was fourteen, hungry, and desperate to get out of a town where dreams died under fluorescent lights and pawn shop signs. Dawson didn’t just coach me—he carved me. Molding me into his version of “promising,” sanding off the edges that made me me.

“Guess so,” I mutter, but my fingers are curling into fists without permission.

The locker room’s noise fades into a low buzz. I’m not mad at Brody. Not really. He doesn’t know better. But every timesomeone name-drops Dawson like he’s fucking Zeus, it feels like they’re putting me in his shadow all over again. Like I didn’t claw my way here on my own terms.

The smell hits first—fresh tape, gear oil, and that sharp bite of newly zambonied ice. Training camp ice is different. Faster. Unforgiving. Every stride matters when coaches are watching with clipboards, deciding who makes the roster and who gets sent down to the minors.

I ain’t no fucking marionette. And I’m not his trophy.

I lace my skates with the same ritual I’ve had since juniors—left foot first, three loops, pull tight, check the blade alignment. Superstition or science, doesn’t matter. What matters is that first push off the boards, feeling the edge bite into the ice like coming home.

The door swings open. Coach strides in, followed by Aiden, who tosses a clipboard onto the bench like he’s already pissed. Probably is. Practice starts in ten.

We hit the ice. The Cyclones’ arena is colder than most—some malfunction with the rink chillers that never got fixed, according to the equipment manager. Makes Florida feel like Canada for a few hours, at least. I kind of like it. Keeps my senses sharp.

We skate drills. Tight corners. Stretch passes. Transition work. Nothing fancy, but it’s hard and fast and real, and for a while, I lose myself in the rhythm of it all. This team’s raw—half the roster made up of trades and rookies. Expansion team energywith veteran-level pressure. But we’ve got potential. Underneath the chaos, there’s talent.

And I want to be the one to anchor it.

Until Brody opens his mouth again.

“I’m trying that Dawson redirect pass today,” he yells, laughing as he swings wide for the puck. “Bet it works better on this ice!”

My chest tightens. My vision narrows. I know it’s nothing. Just a kid admiring a coach who changed his life. But my legs move before my brain can stop them.

The second I saw his blade dig into the crease, something in me snapped.

My skates cut across the ice like razors. Wind rushed past my ears. All the noise around me dulled into one sharp point—him.

I barreled in like a missile.

The boards cracked as our bodies collide. My shoulder clips him, and we both go down. Brody’s grunt hit my chest almost as hard as I hit him—a controlled detonation of all the shit I’ve been burying since day one.

The puck skitters away, forgotten.

Coach’s whistle shrieks.