Page 70 of Back in the Game (Pride in the Game #1)

He felt better today, despite his brain trying to tell him that a step above rock bottom was still rock bottom.

He wouldn’t be allowed to play until he had a full evaluation, but practice was doable. He needed to stay limber if he wanted to be in peak condition, so the only way to do that was by getting out of bed and back to his routine.

He put his gym clothes on and left his bedroom, stopping in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. His dad was sitting at the kitchen island reading a newspaper—where the hell did he get a newspaper from?—and drinking his coffee.

“Morning,” he said with an exaggerated cheeriness before hurrying out of the room and toward the gym on the other side of the penthouse.

He could’ve gone to the private fitness center on the top floor, but other tenants had access to it, and Jett wasn’t in the mood to make small talk or risk awkward stares. Not today. Not when the tension in his chest hadn’t fully loosened.

Inside the home gym, he plugged his phone into the dock, letting his favourite playlist fill the room with the familiar pulse of bass and melody.

It helped—just a little. He rolled his shoulders and started his warm-up stretches, breathing through the stiffness in his side.

The pain was sharp whenever he twisted too far, a residual ache that hadn’t quite faded from the last game.

Still, he welcomed it. Pain was something tangible.

Understandable. He could work through pain.

He was a hockey player—bruises came with the territory.

After a full hour of pushing himself on the treadmill—legs pounding, lungs burning, sweat dripping from his temples—he finally slowed to a walk. His heart thundered in his chest, and his body buzzed with the electric hum of exertion.

He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, then walked over to the mirrored wall and stared at himself.

Tousled blond hair stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling with each breath. He didn’t look broken. His face was the same. Still sharp, still young. Still…him.

He looked fine.

He was fine.

He told himself that again, as if saying it enough times could make it true.

But his jaw was clenched. And behind his eyes, something flickered. He didn’t look away. He held his own gaze and tried to believe it.

He was fine.

He had to be.

Jett finished his water and left, not stopping to turn the lights off in his haste. He was at the front door and tugging his sneakers on before his father could make another comment.

“Jett—”

He pocketed his keys and closed the door behind him, sprinting to the elevator.

Harrison was at the practice rink with the team like he had been all week, so Jett had a destination in mind. He could put on his skates and step back into the role he was born to do, and maybe that would trigger something inside him.

He understood that he was manic right now, but maybe this was the answer. Put everything behind and focus on hockey—focus on the space between the puck and the net—nothing else.

Harrison had been carpooling with Ryan, so the car was parked in the underground lot. He could have asked the staff to bring it to the front, but this was easier—less crowded.

Jett got in his car and jammed the key in the ignition, barely remembering to put his seat belt on before he was peeling out of the parking lot.

The sun touched him for the first time in weeks, and he fumbled for his sunglasses so he could see where he was going. There was no one around, no one lying in wait for him to escape his home. Traffic was light, and no one recognized him or tried to approach during red lights.

His pulse was booming in his ears, and he felt like puking, but he was doing it .

The rink was the true challenge. There were a lot of people around, all busy doing their own thing, but they stopped the second they saw Jett walking toward them.

Jett knew he looked dishevelled in his sweaty joggers and shirt, but they were acting like they had spotted a ghost. He ignored them, making a beeline for the changing room where his gear was kept. All the tension would disappear when he hit the ice; he just had to make it there.

“Fraser?”

Jett turned and saw Danny coming out of the physio room, looking startled. He must have seen him walk by through the glass walls of the hallway.

Jett politely took his sunglasses off and beamed. “Hey, I’m here for practice. I promise I’ll go easy.”

Danny gave a slow nod and did his best impression of a smile. “Alright. I’ll go tell Coach what’s going on while you get changed.”

Jett saluted him and continued his fast walk toward the safety of the locker room. He was determined not to get stopped by anyone else so that he didn’t have to watch their awkward reactions.

His cubicle was pristine and untouched, and his gear was sorted perfectly for him. He changed into appropriate sportswear and geared up, feeling settled in his skin as he tied his skates and grabbed his stick on his way to the rink.

He could already see Coach Adams and Danny discussing something quietly on the opposite side of the rink. Coach’s expression was pinched as he shook his head at whatever Danny was telling him.

Whatever. Danny wasn’t his therapist, so it’s not like he could use his physio degree to make an excuse to keep him off the ice.

Jett took the guards off his blades and handed them to a frowning staff member, ignoring the warmth of irritation spreading through him. His eyes were set on Harrison in the middle of the rink, his broad back on display as he yelled at Cote for not watching his right side.

Some of the guys caught sight of him and slid to a stop, watching him skate onto the ice. Jett grinned and waved, keeping his chin held high as he headed for center ice.

“Coach, put me on Cote’s line and I’ll play through the strategy with him,” Jett said, coming to a stop beside Harrison.

Harrison barely reacted when he saw him. There was a crinkle of grumpiness around his eyes, and his lips were pressed into a thin line, but that was it.

Everyone had stopped skating now, and all eyes were on him. Jett glanced at Wolf, taking in the sight of the scowl on his handsome features. Ryan was stiff as a board, eyes darting to Harrison like he was waiting for the argument to start.

With the same cool confidence he always had, Harrison jerked his head at Hellstrom. “Line switch. Fraser takes right wing for now. We need to do better on our power plays for Monday because you know who we’re up against.”

The Florida Barracudas. A hard-hitting team with a surplus of penalty minutes and a defence like a stone wall. They were experts at shutting teams down, so taking advantage of the power play was essential.

The guys on the ice said nothing as they skated into position.

Not even Jason, whose mouth usually ran nonstop, said a word.

The quiet was too sharp to be comfortable—too tense to be ignored.

They were all on edge, every one of them wound tight like a spring, but Jett didn’t let it throw him.

He rolled his shoulders, exhaled through his nose, and took his position for the face-off .

This was his zone. He knew how to push everything else out.

The puck hit the ice with a sharp clack , and Jett exploded into motion. He didn’t need to look—he knew Bracken would win the drop. The rhythm between them was built on instinct by now, and came as easily as drawing in oxygen.

As expected, Bracken wrangled the puck cleanly and sent it skating toward him.

His teammates came for him immediately—closing in like wolves—but Jett was already reading the ice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cote slip into the seam, perfectly positioned where they’d drilled over and over again.

Jett faked left, pulling into a sudden stop with a sharp hiss of blades against ice. Snow sprayed, catching Wolf directly in the chest. The defenseman cursed and stumbled, caught flat-footed by the abrupt maneuver.

That was all Jett needed.

The millisecond of space he created was a gift, and he used it. Twisting his body, Jett shifted his weight and brought his stick down in a controlled slap. The puck shot across the rink like a bullet, slicing clean through the defenders. It was a good pass, but he was off by an inch.

He was already skating again, his mind locked in, and his heart racing with the thrill of control.

Cote caught the puck when it bounced off the boards, his skates cutting a tight arc as he pivoted to look for Jett.

Jett didn’t slow down. He pushed himself to the net, reading the shift in Cote’s posture.

The pass came quick and sharp, a low zinger that sliced between skates and sticks. Jett caught it on the heel of his blade, barely breaking stride as he adjusted. The defence was too slow, too late to catch him.

In a heartbeat, he pulled his stick back and snapped it forward with a crisp, practiced flick of his wrist.

The puck soared, rising just enough to clear Jason’s shoulder, then slammed into the mesh behind him with a resounding thwack .

Cheers echoed through the arena from both sides on the ice, and Jett pumped his fist into the air.

That felt good — really good.

A hand snagged the back of his shirt and drew him away from the others, sliding him to where Wolf and Coach Adams were standing.

“You look good, little ferret,” Wolf drawled in his thick accent, eyeing Bracken as he let go of Jett’s sweater. “Scrawny, but you were always on the scrawny side.”

“Was not,” said Jett. Wolf just couldn’t comprehend how height didn’t equal muscle.

“A warning would have been appreciated,” Coach Adams said in a clipped tone. “Killinger informed me that you weren’t leaving the bedroom, let alone skating, so we weren’t expecting you to come to practice.”

Any other time, Jett would have felt bad for messing with his coach’s routine because he knew how important it was to him, but he wasn’t in the mood.

“Is there a problem with me showing up?”