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The chirping starts immediately. It’s like blood in the water.

“Maybe pretty boy needs his nutritionist to hold his stick for him,” Marcus calls out.

My jaw clenches. My gloves tighten. Every instinct screams to drop them right here, show these fuckers what happens when they run their mouths.

But I don’t. Because that’s exactly what they’re waiting for. Proof that I’m the headcase they’ve heard about.

“Again!” Barnes barks. “And this time, Steele, try playing like you actually want to be here.”

The next rush comes fast. Aiden carries it up center, two defenders collapsing on him. I’m alone in the slot, stick on the ice, calling for it. The pass comes hard and perfect.

This time, I don’t think. Just react. Pure muscle memory and ten thousand hours of repetition.

One-timer. Top shelf. Bar down. The ping of rubber off metal echoes through the arena like a gunshot.

“There’s the player we traded for!” Barnes shouts. “Do it again!”

But the relief only lasts a second.

Because I know the truth—my head’s still fucked. Still thinking about her instead of hockey. Still choosing between the life I’ve bled for and the woman who makes me forget why I ever wanted it.

“Steele!” Coach Barnes’ voice cuts across the ice like a blade. “What the fuck was that?”

I’d just whiffed on an easy shot, sending the puck sailing wide of an empty net. Rookie mistake. The kind of mistake that gets you sent down to the minors.

“Sorry, Coach.”

“Sorry doesn’t win games.” He skates over, getting in my face. “You been partying? Drinking? What’s your malfunction?”

The guys are watching now. I can feel their eyes on me, waiting to see if I’ll blow up. If I’ll give them another reason to write me off as a fucked up headcase.

“I’m good,” I lie.

“Bullshit. Hit the showers. You’re done for today.”

The walk of shame to the locker room feels like it takes forever. I can hear the whispers starting before I even clear the ice.

Water scalds my shoulders, but none of it reaches the part of me that’s unraveling.

Coach Dawson’s words keep looping in my head like a fucking mantra.

‘Choose.’

By the time I’m dressed and heading out, I’ve made my decision. It’s the smart play. The safe play.

The only play I’ve got left.

I’m halfway to my car when I see her.

Katarina’s waiting by the exit, looking like sin in a lab coat. Her hair’s pulled back in one of those messy buns that makes me want to bury my fingers in it and mess it up even more. When she spots me, her face lights up—and fuck if that doesn’t make this ten times harder.

“Hey,” she says, stepping into my path. “How was practice?”

“Fine.”

The word comes out clipped, cold. I see her flinch, but I don’t soften it.

“You sure? You seem—”