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CHAPTER TWO

Braden

The crisp sound of skates slicing into the glossy surface of the ice resonates throughout the rink, accompanied by the rhythmic slap of sticks striking pucks and the sharp, commanding bark of the coach's orders.

The cold air, refreshing and brisk, envelops me as I launch myself forcefully from the blue line, my muscles coiled and ready, in pursuit of a loose puck that threatens to slip away before Reggie can snatch it up.

I reach the puck first, my blade cracking against the ice with a satisfying snap as I seize control, deftly maneuvering to dodge out of Reggie's grasp with a quick, practiced deke.

With a swift flick of my wrist, I send a tight, precise pass to Ambrose.

The new guy is proving to be a fast learner, quicker than I anticipated. He receives the puck on his stick with seamless precision, his hazel eyes narrowing with intense focus.

In one fluid motion, he pivots sharply and propels the puck toward the net with a powerful shot. The sharp clang of the puck striking the crossbar reverberates across the ice, a testament to a close call, yet just shy of a goal.

"Not bad, mate," Reggie calls out with a wide grin, gliding smoothly past Ambrose on his skates and giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder.

"Should’ve aimed higher," Ambrose mutters, rolling his shoulders with a slight grimace. His voice is gravelly, like rocks tumbling over each other, but I can sense the satisfaction beneath his words.

He’s a solid player, already proving himself to be a valuable asset to our team, and it’s only his second official practice with us.

His endurance is remarkable: likely honed by his ultra-marathon escapades on the side, which seem to fuel his boundless energy.

Coach's whistle pierces the chilly air, commanding us into another round of drills, and I launch myself forward, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles. It's a satisfying ache, the kind that comes with the grueling demands of a tough practice, each movement precise and powerful.

Hockey has always been my sanctuary, a place where I feel truly at home.

Yet lately, there's a creeping sensation, like invisible chains tightening around me, making it feel more like a trap than the freedom it once was.

I can feel it again: a slow, insidious feeling of burnout creeping around my ribs like a too-tight jersey constricting my breath. Each sprint, each stop-and-start drill, each fervent push only deepens the persistent ache that has been steadily growing in my chest.

It's not a physical pain. My body remains unscathed.

Instead, it's my mind that's fraying, like old, worn-out threads barely holding together.

Hockey is my life. It has been since I was a kid—a constant companion and defining force.

But now, for the first time, a shadow of doubt flickers in my thoughts, making me question whether it's enough. I shake these unsettling thoughts away, willing myself back into the rhythm of the drills.

A hard pass echoes across the ice, the sound crisp and sharp. I sprint toward the boards, the cold air biting against my skin.

A quick pivot sends ice shavings flying, and I chase the puck with determination. I shoot, the puck slicing through the air with precision.

It should feel exhilarating.

It should feel like coming home.

Instead, a restless energy simmers beneath my skin, refusing to settle. Ambrose glides up beside me during a water break, expertly twisting the cap off his bottle with a practiced flick.

“You always this miserable, or is today special?” he quips, a teasing smirk playing on his lips before he takes a long, leisurely sip.

I force out a dry laugh, swiping a hand across my damp forehead to clear away the glistening beads of sweat.

“I’m fine,” I reply, trying to sound convincing.

But truthfully, I’m not, and I’m determined to keep that buried from everyone else.

I desperately need a break, a genuine escape from this relentless cycle.

But that’s a distant dream, far from reality for the foreseeable future.

The truth is, I’m itching to escape. Not entirely from hockey, but from the monotonous routine, the relentless schedule that has dictated my life since the day I was drafted. I often reminisce about the last time I truly felt liberated.

It was during an off-season, backpacking through Europe, with no agenda but exploration. I remember meandering down the ancient cobblestone streets of Italy, the warm sun on my face, indulging in the most exquisite pasta I had ever tasted.

I swam in the crystal-clear waters of the Mediterranean, the salt clinging to my skin, and spent evenings drinking with strangers in bustling hostels, people who didn’t care in the slightest about hockey.

For once, I wasn’t Braden Gallagher, the Right Wing for the Marauders.

I was simply…me.

I yearn for that once more.

I crave the adventure, the electrifying thrill of something new, the exhilarating sensation of waking up in a place where expectations don't weigh heavily on my shoulders.

But it's the heart of the season now. No vanishing into the unknown of a foreign land, no spontaneous road trips to the majestic mountains, or last-minute camping weekends under a canopy of stars.

I roll my shoulders, attempting to shrug off the mounting frustration as Coach's piercing whistle echoes through the chilly air of the rink. His deep, authoritative voice booms across the ice, resonating with determination.

"All right, boys," he calls out, the sound rippling through the space, "Good work today. Game day’s approaching fast. Rest up, focus up."

The team glides off, their skates slicing through the ice as they make their way toward the locker room. I linger for a moment, my eyes drawn upward, tracing the lines of the rafters that frame the arena.

I need to find a way to balance the exhilarating demands of hockey with the restless part of me that yearns for something more.

Deep in thought I stroll down the hallway toward the locker room.

That's when I unexpectedly collide with someone.

Kenzie.

Emerging from the corridor that leads to the veterinarian room, her deep brown eyes widen slightly as they lock onto mine. For a fleeting moment, we simply stand there, transfixed by each other's gaze.

She's small and curvy, the kind of petite that makes you want to gently lift her and see if she fits perfectly against your frame. Her olive-toned skin is flushed, perhaps from hurrying through her tasks, or maybe from something else entirely.

I can't help but grin, tilting my head playfully. "Hey there, vet girl."

Her cheeks bloom into a deeper shade of crimson, and instead of replying, she quickly lowers her head, almost as if shyly retreating from the encounter.

With a quickened pace, she nearly scurries away, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor.

I blink, somewhat bemused, as I watch her disappear down the hall, her presence lingering in the air long after she's gone.

What just happened?

I find myself shaking my head a bit, my hands buried deep in my hoodie pockets. She is a stunning girl.

There's something about her Irish look that captivates me, which is a problem, given my whole Irish pride thing.

Yet, I'm well aware of what people say about me.

Kenzie isn't the kind of girl for a casual fling; she's the kind you fall deeply for.

And falling for someone isn't my style.

I have too many places left to explore.

Still, I can't help but look back, torn by the sight of her anxious expression.

The scent of sweat, sharp menthol, and that peculiar blend of damp gear and soap fills the air as I step into the locker room. It’s an aroma that might turn most people off, but for me, it’s the scent of routine, of home. It’s a familiar, comforting fragrance that wraps around me like an old sweatshirt.

All the guys are already congregated near the benches, the air full of a lively mix of activity and chatter. Some are still half-dressed from practice, their jerseys clinging to their bodies, while others are vigorously toweling off their damp hair, sending droplets flying.

Reggie is on the floor, stretching out his legs with the focus of a seasoned athlete, his muscles taut under the dim fluorescent lights. Ambrose, meanwhile, is meticulously lacing up his street shoes, his fingers moving with practiced precision.

And Tyler, ever the laid-back character, at least compared to his brother, has his feet kicked up on one of the benches as if he owns the place, a grin playing on his lips.

“Oi, Braden!” Reggie calls out, his Scottish accent as thick as the fog rolling over the highlands. “Saw you chatting up the vet girl out there. You moving in on her, or was she running for her life?”

The guys snicker, their laughter echoing off the tiled walls, and I shake my head, peeling off my hoodie, the fabric soft and worn against my skin.

“She literally ran away from me,” I admit with a rueful smile.

Tyler smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah, that’s what most women do when they realize who they’re talking to,” he quips, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

I roll my eyes, the gesture exaggerated for effect. "Hilarious. Really. You guys should do stand-up," I say with a dry tone, as sarcasm drips from my words.

Reggie, ever the jokester, waggles his brows with a mischievous grin. "I dunno, mate. Seemed like she was flustered. Maybe you got under her skin," he suggests, his voice teasing but with a hint of curiosity.

Ambrose, quiet yet perceptive, glances over from the corner of the room, his eyes thoughtful. "Maybe she's just shy," he offers, his voice soft and contemplative.

Shy? Maybe. But there was something about the way she bolted out of there that felt...different, like a puzzle missing its final piece.

“Yeah maybe after that night at Ally’s party with you!” I retort.

The room fills with an accusatory “ooo” sound as all the player’s gazes flick to us.

Before I can dive deeper into my thoughts, Coach strides in with purpose, clipboard tucked firmly under one arm.

His presence is commanding, and it sweeps across the room like a tidal wave. "All right, shut up and listen," he barks, his voice cutting through the air with the precision of a whip cracking.

Instantly, the laughter that filled the room evaporates, leaving a charged silence in its wake as we all pivot our attention toward him.

It’s time to focus on something other than the Vet.