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“You’ve got one hell of a temper, Liam. And it’s gonna cost you. I’ve seen it before. Guys with a chip on their shoulder and a stick up their ass don’t last long. Not in this league.”

I step inside. Slam the door behind me. The silence swallows me whole. Same as always. Quiet. Empty.

I drop my keys on the counter like I’m not picturing myself throwing them through a fucking wall.

“I’m working on it,” I bite out.

“Try harder. You think anyone’s gonna keep making room for you if you can’t keep your head on straight?”

I run a hand down my face. “What do you want me to say, Coach?”

“I want you to grow the hell up. You’re not some rookie underdog anymore. You’ve got a shot. A real one. Don’t throw it away acting like a ticking time bomb.”

I grip the phone tight enough it creaks. “I show up. I train. I keep my head down—”

“You don’t keep your head down,” he cuts in. “You throw helmets. You fuck with your teammates. You blow up over bullshit and walk around like the whole damn world owes you something. Get your head right, or you’ll be just like the rest. Out and forgotten.” I want to scream.

Want to tell him he doesn’t know shit. Throw it back in his face.

But I don’t.

They only ever see the fire. Never what lit the match

I just breathe. Grit my teeth. Let the words cut.

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” he repeats, voice low now. “This league doesn’t wait for guys like you to figure it out. It eats them alive. You’ve got a small window, Liam. Don’t let your ego slam it shut.”

He hangs up.

“Fuck this,” I growl, ripping my shirt over my head and tossing it across the room. I don’t have any answers, and I’m not in the mood to sit around pretending they’ll magically show up. I needa release. Something—anything—to take the edge off. A shower and a good release might not solve shit, but it’s better than pacing like a caged animal.

I storm into the bathroom and crank the water as hot as it’ll go. Steam rolls up the mirror as I stare at my reflection. Same dark-haired prick looking back at me, same goddamn scowl. No clarity, no breakthrough—just me and my bullshit.

Coach Dawson’s a miserable bastard, but he had one thing right—I need to get my head straight. This season’s my shot to prove I belong here. One chance. One fucking shot to make noise before I get buried in the lineup, or worse—forgotten. I didn’t come here to fade into the background. It’s a clean slate, and I need to stop dragging my feet and take it.

The second the water hits, I let out a guttural groan. My back’s tight, shoulders stiff, muscles fried from the last few days. The grind is real, but this? This helps. I lean into the spray, hand sliding down my abs until it wraps around my cock. Not even fully hard yet, but it’s getting there fast. Been a few days since I’ve taken the edge off—and every damn time, it’s the same thing lighting me up.

Her.

That fucking party. That night. The one good goddamn thing since I got here. I should probably forget it—chalk it up to a one-off, a fantasy—but I can’t. That night’s been on a loop in my head since it happened. And even if I went back, there’s no guarantee she’d be there. I’m not chasing a maybe, and I sure as hell don’twant to tarnish the memory with a half-assed repeat. She raised the fucking bar—and now nothing else even comes close.

Her tits alone are enough to have my dick kicking in my hand, remembering how good it felt to bury my face in them. I tighten my hand in a poor attempt to emulate how her pussy felt wrapped around me, chasing the ghost of that heat, that slick slide I can’t recreate. I’ve got a hard rule—no dating during the season. No random hookups either. Not because I’m trying to be a goddamn saint, but because I’ve seen too many guys get wrecked by puck bunnies. Some of those stories end in love, sure, but most of them end in courtrooms and ruined reputations. So until I find someone who can keep her mouth shut or turn into my future wife, my hand will have to do.

I mean, a fucker can fantasize.

Steam coils around me, thick and suffocating, but not nearly enough to burn her out of my head.

The water beats down on my back, I should be tired. Practice wiped me out, the heat’s suffocating, and Coach’s words are still rattling in my skull.

But all I can think about is her.

The woman from the club.

The party.

The mask.