Page 4

The familiar smell of the ice hits me as soon as I step into the Phoenix Red Wolves’ training facility. It’s the start of a new season, and the energy vibrating through everyone is electric: coaches shouting instructions, the sharp sound of skates cutting across the ice, the low hum of players talking. This is where I’m supposed to be, where I am successful.

I walk to the locker room, feeling the familiar anticipation strumming in my veins as I pull out my gear. The weight of my pads, the tightness of my skates, and the feel of my gloves—it's all like an old friend, one I know inside and out. Today, I’m ready to prove myself, to push harder, skate faster, make my mark all over again. The guys around me are gearing up too and the air is thick with focus. Just as I pull my jersey over my head, Coach Wilder strides in; his presence commands the room instantly. He claps his hands together loudly and the chatter dies down.

"Alright, boys, listen up!" he barks, and every head turns.

The room goes still, and I feel my heart rate pick up. Whatever he’s got to say, it’s gonna set the tone for practice, for the season, and I’m here for it, ready to give it everything I’ve got.

Nolan Wilder’s eyes sharpen and his voice cuts through the silence as he starts to deliver his classic no-bullshit speech.

"Real talk," he starts, pacing with that intense glare he gets when he's dead serious. "Just because we won the Stanley Cup last year doesn’t mean we’re hot shit this season. The rest of the league is gunning for us, and they’re going to come at us even harder now. So, I don’t want to see any of you slacking off, thinking you can just coast through. You have to push it hard—every game, every shift, every damn practice. Play like champions. Earn it all over again."

I feel the weight of his words sink in, the tension in the room rising as we all take it in. He’s right, of course. Last season’s glory doesn’t mean a thing if we don’t show up now, ready to grind, ready to prove that we’re still the best. I try to stay focused on Coach Wilder’s voice booming through the locker room. Usually his methods fire me up, but today his words start to blur as I space out, my thoughts drifting far from the rink.

I clench my jaw, trying to shake it off, to focus on his message about pushing harder, about defending our title with everything we’ve got. But no matter how much I try to zero in, my mind keeps wandering back to Rachel—her face, her voice, the way she felt in my arms. It’s like she’s lodged in my brain, and I can’t dislodge her no matter how hard I try. This is a strange sensation that I am not accustomed to. The guys around me are nodding, locked in, but I’m stuck replaying that night, wondering why the hell I can’t just forget her and move on.

Two weeks have gone by, and I still can’t get her out of my head. Our unexpected reunion that night… the way she looked at me, the way she felt. And then she was gone. Again. Even worse than before–at least the first time she had the decency to stay until the morning. I can’t shake the frustration, the damn lingering questions. Why does she keep running away? I try to clear my head, but the question sticks like glue.

Coach blows the whistle, and we’re off, diving straight into the practice drills. My skates slice through the ice as I push myself harder, feeling the familiar burn in my legs as I race backward, tracking the puck, keeping my eyes locked on the forward coming at me. As a defenseman, every move is a test—closing the gap, reading the play, anticipating the pass.

I dig deep, making tight moves, slamming my stick down to block a shot, feeling the satisfying sting of the puck hitting the blade. Nolan keeps yelling for more intensity, pushing us through each drill with barely a pause to breathe. I grind through, my muscles screaming, sweat pouring down my face. Damn, I forgot how hard it is to come back from a break. Fuck!

I lean into each hit, using my body to create space, to protect our end of the ice. Every second, I’m focused on shutting down the attack, proving I’m not just a piece of last year’s victory, but a force to be reckoned with this season, too. The sounds surround me, and I lose myself in the rhythm, in the only place that’s ever felt like home.

Practice wraps up, and I skate to the boards, resting against them. I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath after the last grueling drill when I hear Ford’s voice beside me.

“Hey, you good, man?” He asks, his brows furrowed with concern. “You’ve been kinda off since we got here.”

I straighten up and wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my glove, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I shrug, not really wanting to get into it. “Just… got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Ford crosses his arms, not buying it. “Come on, Oren. You’ve been skating like you’ve got something to prove, but your head’s somewhere else. What’s up?”

I hesitate for a second, debating whether I should brush him off. Finally, I decide to be somewhat honest. “I ran into someone a couple of weeks ago… someone I didn’t expect to see again.”

Ford raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile creeping onto his face, his eyebrows wiggling. “Oh, yeah? Someone special?”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “More like someone complicated. It’s just… been messing with me, you know?”

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. Complicated has a way of sticking around longer than you think.”

I grunt in agreement, then add, “I just need to shake it off, get my head back in the game.”

Ford claps a hand on my shoulder. “You will, man. Just don’t let it eat at you too much. We’ve got a long season ahead, and we need you dialed all in.”

I nod, knowing he’s right but still feeling the presence of Rachel in the back of my mind. “Yeah, I’m trying,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “I’m trying.”

I head to the locker room, the noise of the guys filling the space with the usual post-practice chatter. I sit down at my locker, pulling off my gear, my muscles still burning from the workout. I reach for my phone, hoping for a distraction, but it’s nothing but bullshit.

I don’t want to admit how much Rachel has been on my mind, how I can’t stop replaying that night in my head. The way she felt, the way she left me hanging all over again, wondering if she thinks about me, if she regrets leaving while I was asleep. What the fuck is wrong with me? I shouldn’t care. I don’t do relationships–I don’t chase women.

After practice, I head home, stripping off my clothes and stepping into a hot shower. I lean my head against the cool tile, letting the water run over me, trying to wash away the frustration. But all I see is her face, the way her eyes darkened with uncertainty, the way she looked torn between wanting me and wanting to run.

I close my eyes for a second, and suddenly, there she is—like a vision that won’t let me go. I see her standing under the shower, the water cascading over her olive skin, droplets clinging to her like they don’t want to leave. Her dark brown eyes are deep and mysterious, framed by those long lashes that make every look feel like a challenge.

Her face is fresh, beautiful, no makeup, just the natural glow that makes her seem effortlessly stunning. Her long, dark brownish-black hair falls in wet waves around her shoulders, clinging to her neck, flowing down her back, framing her face in a way that takes my breath away. And then there are her curves, the kind of figure that drives a man crazy.

Full, soft, with a shape that is made to be touched, held, worshiped. She’s all heat and confidence, and just thinking about her like this, with nothing between us but steam and desire, makes my pulse race and my mind torpedo straight into the ground with everything I want to do to her. I grit my teeth, feeling anger flare up in my chest. Why the hell is she in my head like this? I don’t care.

I step out of the shower, steam swirling around me, but instead of feeling any calmer, I’m more pissed off—extra agitated. I dry off quickly, tossing the towel aside, and yank open my closet. I grab the first things I see. A baggy pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt, pulling them on with sharp, frustrated movements. My hair is still holding onto the moisture from the shower. I shove a hat backwards, not even bothering to check the mirror. I just need to get out, clear my head, and stop thinking about Rachel.

I grab my phone and scroll to Ford’s number and press call. As it rings, I pace my room, trying to shake off this restless energy, hoping he’s up for something tonight—anything to get me out of this damn spiral.

“Hey, man,” I say as soon as he answers. “You and the boys up for a night out?”

Ford doesn’t hesitate. “Hell yeah, brother.”

I laugh, but it’s short, clipped. “I want to blow off some steam. Let’s get drunk, find some girls, have some fun.”

“Now you’re talking,” Ford chuckles. “Meet you at the usual spot in an hour?”

“Yeah,” I say, my jaw tight. “See you there.”

I hang up, throwing my phone into my back pocket. Gathering my wallet and keys, I head to the door, trying to shove thoughts of Rachel out of my mind. Tonight, I’ll drink too much, take some random girl home, and forget all about her. That’s a plan I can stick to.

The bar is already pulsing with noise by the time I walk in. The place is packed with people laughing, cussing, arguing, and the clinking of glasses. All of it blending into a loud, chaotic hum. I spot Ford and Vlad at a table near the back, a few other guys from the team already around them. Even Coach Wilder’s here, leaning back with a beer in his hand, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

Nolan Wilder is the youngest coach in the league, a ripe 36 years old, and he’s got this unique edge that makes him both respected and a bit of an asshole. He’s just one of the guys, really—quick to crack a joke in the locker room, willing to grab a beer with the team after a win—but there’s always that careful line he walks, keeping just enough distance to be taken seriously. Not by us, the Red Wolves. We know he’s the real deal. He’s earned our respect on and off the ice.

Tonight isn’t about drills or plays; it’s about blowing off steam, drowning out whatever’s been gnawing at me for weeks. I slide into a chair next to Ford, nodding at the guys.

“Let’s get this going,” I say, waving over the waitress to order a round of shots.

The alcohol starts flowing fast, and I knock back shot after shot, feeling the burn in my throat, hoping it’ll burn away the thoughts of Rachel with it. After a few rounds, I notice a blonde girl at the bar—tall, with a tight dress that clings to her body, her bright blue eyes scanning the room. She’s the polar opposite of Rachel, and that’s exactly what I need. I push myself up, making my way over to her, feeling the familiar confidence kick in, making me feel loose, alive.

“Hey, beautiful,” I say with a grin, leaning against the bar next to her. “You look like you could use some company.”

She turns to me, a flirty smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe,” she replies, tilting her head in a way that’s inviting, a little teasing. “Depends on the company.”

We talk for a bit in shallow conversation, nothing like the way it felt when I talked to Rachel, but that’s what I want tonight—something simple, uncomplicated. I force another smile, but inside, I’m dying. There’s nothing here, no spark, no depth, just surface-level chatter that’s starting to grate on me. I try to listen, but my mind keeps drifting. I sigh, taking another long sip of my drink, wondering how much longer I can keep this up.

“I’ve got a place nearby,” she whispers in my ear, her breath warm, “Why don’t you come back with me?”

I don’t hesitate, desperate to move on. “Let’s go,” I say, downing the last of my drink, flashing a grin at the guys who are still laughing and talking around the table.

I nod to Ford, who gives me a knowing look, and wave at Coach Wilder, who’s already too disgruntled looking in the corner. I leave them behind, following her out into the night, telling myself this is exactly what I need—to get away, to forget.

We stumble through the door of her apartment, her hands all over me, pulling at my clothes. I let myself get caught up in it, trying to lose myself in her touch, her attention, her body. I go through the motions, telling myself this will clear my head, that maybe if I just push hard enough, I can erase the image of Rachel from my mind forever.

I lay back on the bed, the blonde straddling me, moving with a rhythm that shows just how much she wants me. She’s so into it, so focused on making me feel good, like I’m the only thing in the world that matters to her right now. But even the feeling of her body on mine gives me the nagging sense that something’s missing, like a piece of the puzzle isn’t quite fitting.

Her blue eyes, they’re all wrong, they’re not the deep brown I’m craving. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get the image of dark hair, long lashes, full curves and fierce brown eyes out of my head.

I pull myself away from her as soon as she's had an orgasm or two. Because I am still a gentleman after all. The high fades faster than I expected. The blonde is still breathless, looking at me with a satisfied smile, but all I feel is this hollow emptiness gnawing at me. I grab my clothes off the floor, dressing quickly, muttering some half-assed excuse about needing to get going.

Deep down, I know I’m just lying to myself—because no matter how many shots I take or how many women I meet, there’s still only one woman who has managed to get under my skin like this. The one who leaves me with more questions than answers, who makes me feel like I’m constantly chasing something I can’t quite catch. The one who stalks off in the middle of the night without a word. And I hate that I still want to know why. I shove my hands in my pockets and stalk off into the darkness, my frustration building with every step, cursing myself for caring so damn much.