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Three strides and he’s pinned to his locker, my forearm against his throat hard enough to make him go pale.

“Say that again,” I growl. “I fucking dare you.”

His eyes widen. His mouth opens. But nothing comes out except panic and spit.

“Liam!” Aiden’s voice cuts sharp. “Let him go.”

I want to break his jaw. Just once. Just enough that he thinks twice next time he opens his mouth.

But I don’t. I pull back. Barely.

Marcus gasps, rubbing his throat. “Christ, man. Over a girl?”

I lean in, voice low. “She’s not a girl. And if you mention her again, I’ll feed you your own teeth.”

I walk away. Let the silence choke them for a minute.

Aiden follows. Drops onto the bench beside me again.

“You good?” he asks.

I tug on my jersey. “Peachy.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’re catching feelings.”

I don’t answer. He’s not wrong. But it’s not that simple.

Practice is a war zone. Coach is in one of his moods—skating us until legs go numb, calling out every mistake like it’s personal.

“STEELE! You planning on hitting someone today or just skating pretty?!”

On the next shift, I light a guy up against the boards. Feel the hit all the way through my ribs. It helps. Not much. But enough.

Callahan tries to chirp me again. I grab his jersey and yank him in close.

“You want to go?” I snarl. “Because I’ve got more left in the tank.”

He backs down.

Wise.

I slam my fist against the wall, knuckles splitting on impact. Forty-seven turnovers. But only one choice that matters.

My body’s wrecked—brain still jacked up.

I should hit the showers. Bury it, like always.

Instead, I go to her.

Her office is quiet.

No chaos. No chirping teammates. Just her, bent over a clipboard, hair loose around her face.

I knock once and step inside without waiting.

She looks up, and for a second? She softens. Just enough to let me see the version of her that isn’t for public show.

“Liam,” she says, soft but steady. “Didn’t expect you.”