Page 42 of Puck Daddies

We reset. He leans his stick across my pants on the draw. I knock it away. Puck drops. We skate. He crowds my line at the blue, tangles skates, and we both go down. I pop up fast. He takes his time, smirks, says something about “old legs.” I grab his jersey, and he bats my hand away. That’s enough to light me up.

Coach’s whistle shrieks. “Harris. Edwards. Boards. Now.”

Son of a bitch.

We coast in. I can feel the room watching. Coach plants himself in front of us.

“Hudson, cool off. You’re getting too aggressive with the kid.”

“Kid?” Edwards says the word like it’s an insult.

“He started it. He’s hooking, slashing, running his mouth.”

“Then skate through it,” Coach says. “He’s testing you. Don’t give him what he wants.”

“I’m not some kid!” the kid barks.

“He has to learn to keep his stick down,” I say. “I can teach him. One way or another.”

“This isn’t a fucking debate,” Coach growls. “Edwards, you sit too. Harris, take the afternoon. You’re done.”

“I’m fine! I can skate.”

His voice darkens. “You’re done, Hudson.”

Travis tries not to smile. He fails. I stare at him until he looks away.

I toss my stick on the rack, drag a towel over my face, and head to the room. The guys don’t say much. Fitz throws me a glance that meansdon’t take the bait.Rocco ties his laces tighter and looks at the floor. I shower hot and fast, pull on sweats, and get out before the rookie decides to say something shitty.

Home is quiet. I lock the door behind me, stand a second, try to bleed off the leftover heat. But it sticks.

I head to the kitchen, or for today, my laboratory. I get out my setup, hoping to use it to calm down. Melter, pitcher, wicks cut and ready, tins lined in neat rows. Honey-cedar oil.

I don’t know why making candles works for me. But it does.

I check the temp. It’s in the safe range for skin play and for pouring. I don’t plan to play here all by myself. I plan to pour and breathe. I stir slow, steady. The scent hits the room in a clean way. I set wicks, heat the tins, test a drop on my wrist, pour the first round.

“Hey,” a voice says behind me.

I jerk. The pitcher slams the tin, jumps, and a sheet of wax sloshes over the rim. It hits the counter and my hand. It’s warm, not too hot, but it shocks me. I bite out a curse and set the pitcher down hard.

“Sorry,” Meg says, hands up. “I thought you heard me. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

I shake my hand and flex my fingers. “You’re fine. That was on me.”

She steps in. “Let me help.”

“It’s okay.”

But she’s already moving. Paper towels. A bowl for scraps. She scrapes wax toward the pile with a plastic spatula, works fast, calm. I rinse my hand in cool water and come back with a trash bag. We slide the cooled sheet off the counter and break it into pieces. It cracks soft.

“What are you using today?” she asks. “It smells good, but I can’t place it.”

“Honey cedar. It’s good for the locker room.”

“It’s good for any room.”

We toss the wax scraps. I wipe the edge. She runs a cloth with cleaner over the spill and dries it. Her shoulder bumps mine. I step aside so she can reach.