Page 6

Chapter six

Alex

“C over the goddamn wing!” I shout, even though I know they can’t hear me through the cage of my helmet.

My heart’s pounding. My legs are tight. Sweat is dripping down my spine like a faucet left on. But I’m locked in.

At least, I’m trying to be.

The puck snaps across the ice again—another blind pass—and I shift into a crouch just in time to deflect a slapshot with the top of my blocker. It ricochets into the corner, but no one clears it.

Figures.

We’re scrambling again. Sloppy, tired, behind the play. Like five guys trying to remember how to play hockey in the middle of a fire drill.

I track the next rush, eyes scanning everything at once—blades carving ice, sticks twitching, sweat dripping down faces that look as fried as I feel.

Focus. Reset. Keep your damn head on straight.

But I can’t shut out the noise tonight.

The fans behind me are grumbling. Some are already booing. It’s a home game and we’re getting steamrolled 4–1.

Someone misses another assignment. The puck sneaks across the crease. I dive. Too late.

Ding.

Red light. Horn.

I stay down for an extra second, face pressed to the ice, chest heaving. I almost wish I can just stay here and not have to get up and face the music.

The roar of the other team’s celebration cuts through me like static.

Then I push up, slam my stick against the post. The sound cracks across the rink. Sharp. Violent.

Not like me. Not anymore.

But I don’t care. I’m tired of watching everything fall apart.

“Chadwick’s rattled,” I hear James say behind me as I finally skate toward the bench during the TV timeout.

“Ice cube’s melting,” Ethan mutters.

I don’t react. I sit. Water bottle. Sip. Mask back on. Pretend none of this is happening.

Connor’s pacing. “We’ve got five minutes to salvage this damn period. Heads in. Grit up. Now.”

Parker slides onto the bench beside me, calm like always. “Breathe, man.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“You’re not.” He doesn’t push. Just leaves it there.

I glance across the ice toward the press box and—

There she is.

Dr. Nina Erwin, seated behind the glass like she’s analyzing a goddamn art exhibit. Blonde hair loose around her shoulders, tablet in hand, eyes scanning everything like she’s playing chess while the rest of us are getting mowed down.

Great. She’s probably taking notes on my meltdown right now.

She’s not even looking at me directly, but somehow I can feel it…that little needle of curiosity she aims like a sniper scope.

Yeah, Doc. Hope you’re enjoying the show.

I pull my mask back down and pretend I don’t feel her watching. Pretend like my heart isn’t still racing from that last goal. Pretend like I’m not unraveling, one thread at a time.

***

Final score: 5–2.

Another loss.

I yank off my gloves before heading down the tunnel. Everything’s too loud—skates clacking, rubber wheels from equipment bins squeaking down concrete, Coach’s voice barking orders to no one in particular.

My pads feel heavier than usual. My shoulders ache. I know I should say something. Do something. But what?

Nice game, boys? Good effort?

No one wants to hear it. Especially not from the guy who gave up five.

I make it into the locker room and rip my mask off. Sit down hard on the bench, and start unstrapping my pads like they personally betrayed me.

Across from me, Ethan’s got his headphones in. James is unwrapping tape like it offended him.

Connor’s already half out of his gear, chin tucked to his chest. He’s frustrated but still in captain mode. He’s probably already planning the next practice drill in his head.

Parker sits down beside me again. Quiet.

“You good?” he asks.

“Peachy,” I bite back, too sharp, too fast.

He gives me a look but doesn’t say anything.

James chimes in from across the room. “We should all get group therapy after that performance.”

Ethan snorts. “Speak for yourself. I was flawless.”

James tosses a roll of tape at him. It bounces off Ethan’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch.

No one’s laughing.

Parker leans in, lowers his voice. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” I say flatly.

“Didn’t think so.”

Coach steps in, clipboard in hand. His voice is low and steady, no yelling this time.

“We regroup. That’s all. I don’t need to tell you we’re in a hole right now. But we don’t stay in it unless we choose to.”

Silence.

He looks around. His gaze lands on me for half a second. He doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t have to.

He finishes and leaves. Guys start showering, changing, packing bags for the next road trip.

I grab my phone and my hoodie and slip out the side exit.

I need air.

And space.

And something to hit that isn’t a post.

“Alex Chadwick.”

I hear her before I see her.

Shit.

I keep walking. Footsteps echo behind me, fast and sharp. Of course she’s following me. Of course she can’t just leave it alone. Because she’s Dr. Nina freaking Erwin—ice in her veins, steel in her spine, and eyes like she already knows my blood type and the number of sins on my conscience.

“That outburst wasn’t just about the game.”

I stop but don’t turn. I stare at the cinderblock wall ahead like it might offer me a different escape route.

“You want to do this now?” My voice is low. Rough. I’m not proud of how short I sound, but I’m frayed—mentally, physically, all of it.

“It’s not about want,” she says, steady and calm behind me. “It’s about needing to before you explode again.”

I turn slowly, finally facing her. She’s standing ten feet away in that navy blazer, arms crossed, jaw set. Her hair’s pulled back like she was trying to be practical, but a few strands escaped. She looks... calm. Too calm.

“So now you’re chasing me down to therapize me in the parking lot?”

She tilts her head, eyes sharp. “I’m not chasing. I’m showing up. There’s a difference.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Right. You’re showing up for your dramatic postgame diagnosis. What is it—rage disorder? Ego fatigue? Tell me what chapter I landed in your textbook.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Chadwick.”

That hits harder than it should.

She steps closer, slow and deliberate. “I’m here because I give a damn whether you keep imploding every time something doesn’t go your way.”

“You don’t know what’s in my way.” My voice rises, heat flooding my chest. “You think a couple notes and a press pass means you’ve got me pegged?”

“Then tell me,” she says. Just like that. No hesitation. Like she’s daring me to rip my chest open and hand her the pieces.

I clench my jaw. My hands are fists at my sides. I want to scream. I want to leave. I want to... God, I don’t know what I want.

“They’re counting on me,” I say finally, voice hoarse. “Every single game. Every shift. Every save. I screw up once, and it spirals. One miss and the game’s gone.”

“You’re allowed to be human,” she says, stepping even closer. “Not a wall. Not a machine.”

Her voice isn’t soft, but it’s not sharp either. It’s real. And for some reason, that cuts deeper than anything else she’s said.

“You see me flinch one time and suddenly you know what’s under my skin?” I snap. “Is that how it works? You diagnose people like bruises?

“No,” she says. “But I saw you slam your stick. I saw the way you shut down the entire bench with one look. I saw your shoulders lock up, your breathing change, your focus unravel. You didn’t lose that game because of one goal, Chadwick. You lost it because you stopped trusting yourself.”

I shake my head, but she’s not done.

“I saw a guy who’s cracking from the inside and still trying to act like he’s fine.”

Silence stretches between us.

I hate how true it sounds.

“You always this smug when you get to be right?” I ask, my voice lower now, rougher.

“You always this defensive when someone actually sees you?”

That one hits me dead center.

She’s too close now. Or maybe I am.

We’re standing in this narrow hallway, just the two of us, the muffled sounds of the team still packing up somewhere behind us, the scent of sweat and old ice still clinging to the air.

“You’re not supposed to be this close,” I say, but I don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

“I go where I’m needed,” she says quietly. “And right now, that’s here.”

I look at her.

Not her clipboard. Not her title. Her.

Long lashes. That stubborn little tilt to her chin. The heat in her cheeks from arguing. The green of her eyes that aren’t blinking now. They’re completely locked on mine like she’s not backing down no matter how dark I get.

My eyes drop to her mouth.

And that’s it.

Game over.

“You gonna write this down in your little notebook?” I ask, voice barely audible.

Her answer is just as quiet. “Only if it helps you sleep.”

And then I grab her.

Not out of anger. Not to prove a point. It’s... need.

I grip her forearm and pull her in, fast and firm, until her body’s right against mine and our mouths crash together like the last second of overtime.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.

It’s heat. Desperation. Frustration. Release.

She gasps against my mouth, but she doesn’t pull away.

Her hands are on my chest. My fingers are in her hair. I don’t know if I’m holding her there or if she’s holding me.

The kiss is messy. Breathless. Unplanned.

A storm we didn’t see coming.

And for a second, I let go. I let myself want something.

Then she pulls back. Gasping.

“We can’t,” she says, like she just remembered what world we live in.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I know.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if that was real or some stress-induced lapse in judgment.

My chest rises and falls. Hers does too. Neither of us moves.

She smooths her clothes, avoiding my eyes for just a second, just long enough for me to feel a shift.

“You need sleep,” she says finally. “And we need boundaries.”

Then she turns and walks away. Heels clicking down the hallway. Not looking back.

I stay where I am, hands at my sides, lips still tingling.

I swipe a hand down my jaw like I’m trying to erase it.

But I can’t.

Because it happened.

And now I can’t stop thinking about how it felt.

What it meant.

What it might mean next time.

If there’s a next time.

“Damn it…” I mutter under my breath, leaning back against the cold concrete wall, “I’m already losing the game off the ice.”