Page 8

The ice feels like the only honest thing left.

It doesn’t lie. Doesn’t pretend. You move wrong, it punishes you. You hesitate, you bleed. You lose your edge, you’re done.

I like it better than people.

Practice ends with a scrimmage that turns into a brawl—nothing serious, just mouthguards and a couple bruised egos. I don’t bother getting involved. Not worth my time.

By the time I’m off the ice, my shirt’s stuck to my back and my hip’s barking from that cheap shot in the second drill. I don’t say anything about it.

Coach says, “Hard head, go into that room over there.”

I glance over my shoulder. He keeps pressuring me to get checked but I refuse.

“Even if you’re not going to admit it, I can see it. Go into that room, Slater. Right now.”

I nod to Coach, toss my helmet into the bin, and head to the trainers’ room.

It’s not my first injury, and it won’t be my last.

Inside, it smells like antiseptic and sweat.

There’s that new girl at the taping table. Dark ponytail. Calm hands. Doesn’t look up when I walk in, which earns her a point.

Most of them get wide-eyed when they see me. They want something—attention, validation, a good fuck. She just keeps taping a forward’s ankle, like I’m another body passing through.

I sit on the edge of the exam table and start peeling off my pads.

Riley, the head trainer, walks over. “You need eval?”

I shrug. “Hip took a hit. It’ll settle.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“It’s the one I’m using.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t push. Riley knows better. He’s been patching me up for years.

“You need a stretch?” he asks.

“I’ll do it at home.”

“Bullshit, but fine.”

“Clear me for tomorrow.”

He shakes his head but agrees anyway.

I catch the new girl watching from the corner of her eye.

Curious. Not interested.

Another point.

I shower fast and head out through the back lot. My car’s an old matte-black Defender I shipped up from my off-season place. It’s loud, overbuilt, and stupid-expensive. Which is exactly why I like it.

The ride home takes twenty minutes. I live in a gated house just outside the city—quiet street, long driveway, one neighbor close enough to make noise complaints but too scared to.

It’s big. Open. Clean because I pay someone to clean it. Empty because I like it that way. After my dad left and my mom went off the deep end, I went to college, and the only thing that helped was silence.

I pull on my sweats. Microwave leftover pasta. Eat it standing up while the game replays in the background.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out.

Lexi: You in town this weekend?

Lexi: Bringing a friend x

I don’t answer.

Lexi’s fine. She gets it. But I’m not in the mood.

I open Instagram. Scroll. Close it again.

The silence stretches long, and I let it. I don’t need noise to distract me. I already know what’s underneath the quiet.

Around eleven, I hit the gym in the garage. I throw on a hoodie, blast music, and lift until the edges blur. I like the ache. Like the routine.

After, I collapse on the bench and stretch my hip. It’s fucking killing me lately. I don’t know what the flare up is about, but I’m getting sick of this shit. Coach is yanking my ear to get evaluated, but I won’t bother.

I’ll play through it.

It’s past midnight when I finally settle in bed. I stare at the ceiling fan and count the spins.

I don’t sleep well knowing my brother is gone, and I’m the one here.

It should have been me.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

The next day, I’m at the rink by seven.

First in, last out.

Coach hates me, but he respects that part.

I keep my head down until I feel someone behind me—small frame, light step. New girl.

She’s restocking wraps and wipes down a bench before she sets a tray. Neat. Efficient.

She still hasn’t said a word to me, and it looks like she’s kept my secret.

Riley walks past and grunts, “Your stretch. Now.”

I groan, loud enough to make a point.

“I’ll get Carson,” he warns.

“I’ll take the new one,” I say before I think about it.

Riley’s brow furrows. “Sage?”

“Sage,” I say, looking dead at him.

She looks up. Her eyes finally meet mine.

Neutral.

No blush, no flirt, no nerves.

Interesting.

I nod toward the table. “You good with this?”

She nods once. “You cleared for stretch?”

“You asking or reporting?”

“Both.”

Another point.

I lie back, and she starts slow, professional. She knows her angles, keeps the pressure clean, doesn’t overcorrect. I feel the edge in my hip give just enough to ease the tension, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“You don’t talk much,” I say.

She shakes her head, completely neutral again.

Odd.

I glance up. “You don’t like hockey players?”

“Never said that.”

She finishes the stretch and steps back.

And then, she’s gone.

After stretch, I hit the weight room with Anders and a couple of rookies.

They joke. I don’t.

I’m not here for locker room friendships. I’m here to calm my demons down before I revert to old ways.

Most guys on this team have side businesses, podcast appearances, sponsorship deals. I don’t. I show up. I train. I fight. I score.

Then I leave.

Coach likes to say I’m a cancer in the room. The guy who throws off the balance. He’s not wrong. But I’m also the one who drags the team through the blood when we’re losing in the third. The one who doesn’t flinch when someone puts a knee into our goalie.

I know what I’m worth.

By the time we finish training, it’s late afternoon. I towel off and head out the back, ignoring the HU’s media team hovering near the tunnel. They’ve been begging for a feature all season. “A day in the life of the alive brother in the league.”

Fuck that.

You want to know what a day in my life looks like?

Lifting until my bones ache. Practice until something tears. Ice baths. Food I don’t taste. Sleep I don’t get. Pussy I fuck for fun.

There’s your feature.

In the lot, I’m halfway to my truck when I hear, “Yo, Castellano!”

It’s Anders. Big, blonde, and always smiling like he’s already drunk.

He jogs up beside me. “We’re hitting Cielo tonight. You in?”

“No.”

“Come on. Bottle service, back room, NHL players.”

“I said no.”

He laughs like I’m kidding. “You gotta get laid or something, man. You’re wound tight.”

I unlock the truck. “I’m not the one asking another dude to come drink with him.”

“Damn,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “Cold-blooded.”

By the time I’m home, the house is dark and quiet. The air conditioning hums. The motion lights flip on as I walk through the living room.

I drop my bag. Strip down. Pour a glass of something expensive and sharp.

No dinner. Just whiskey and silence.

I check my phone. Lexi again.

Lexi: I’m wearing your favorite.

Attached is a photo. Red lace. Thigh highs. Lipstick.

I should say no.

Thirty minutes later, she’s on my bed, legs spread, mouth open, moaning like I mean something to her.

I fuck her slow, deep, because I know how. Because she wants to come and I’m the only one who gets her there without asking twice. Because my body still works even if my mind isn’t in it.

She says my name like a prayer.

I come. Wash my hands. Pull on sweats and walk back into the kitchen while she’s still catching her breath.

She follows me out ten minutes later, wrapped in one of my shirts like she lives here.

“Do you even like me?” she asks, leaning against the counter.

“No.”

She laughs like she doesn’t believe me.

She pours herself a drink and studies me over the rim of the glass. “You ever think about quitting?”

“What?”

“Hockey. The league. All of it.”

“Why the fuck would I do that.”

She says nothing.

The silence stretches.

Lexi’s smart. Sharper than people think. That’s why I let her stay longer than most. But she’s also looking for something in me that isn’t there.

After she leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the dresser.

Top drawer. Back corner. Bag of pills I never touched.

My nightstand has some hidden gems too.

I was buying from my drug dealer even after I stopped using, and now there are pills hidden throughout my house.

I haven’t opened any of them in over a year.

But tonight, I come close.

I open the bag. Shake one out. Hold it in my palm.

Small. White. Easy.

Archer laying on the ice, lifeless, slips into my mind, unwelcomed. But it doesn’t lead me to pop the pill this time.

Not because I don’t want to—but because I know where that road goes.

Instead, I swallow back the ache, the noise, the constant need to feel fucking anything —and I drop to the ground. Push-ups until my arms give out. Then planks. Then squats.

By the time I fall to the floor, my muscles are screaming, but at least I’m too tired to think.

I lie here, chest rising, heartbeat in my throat.

This is better than drugs.

Not by much.

Later, I sit on the balcony with a hoodie pulled over my head, city lights in the distance, smoke from a cigar curling around me. I think about nothing. I let the cold creep in.

Some people would call this depression.

I call it maintenance.

Tomorrow’s another practice. Another classroom. Another hit .