10. Rhys #2
The power play pattern ran smoother. Cleaner. Almost right.
Almost.
"Crown." I didn't look at Andrew directly. "Weak side backhand. Again."
"Already ran it twice, Coach." The lazy drawl in his voice—deliberately testing boundaries the way he always did.
I turned my head slowly. Raised one eyebrow.
The smile dropped off his face.
"Three more times," I said quietly. "Full speed."
"Yes, sir."
He skated into position without another word.
This was the language I spoke fluently—discipline, precision, the weight of expectation delivered through silence and absolute certainty. No room for negotiation. No tolerance for half-measures.
Crown ran the drill. Once. Twice. Third time his backhand snapped perfect—tape-to-tape pass that would've threaded through triple coverage.
I nodded once.
He exhaled relief.
Parker glided past—unhurried, economical movement that wasted zero energy. His dark eyes tracked the ice with the same analytical coldness I recognized in myself. He caught my gaze, held it for half a second.
Respect passed between us without words.
Everett understood what most players never learned—that hockey at this level was chess played at sixty miles per hour. Violence wrapped in strategy. Controlled brutality that looked like art when executed correctly.
He knew I saw the game the same way.
"Defensive rotation," I called out. "From the top."
They moved.
No hesitation. No questions. Pure execution.
Skates carved ice in synchronized patterns. Bodies positioned exactly where they needed to be. Every gap covered, every angle protected, the entire defensive zone locked down tight enough to suffocate offensive pressure before it developed.
Beautiful.
This was perfection—twenty athletes moving as one organism, responding to my adjustments with mechanical precision. This was what I'd built my life around. What made sense when nothing else did.
Here, I controlled every variable. Here, my instincts were assets, not liabilities. Here, I knew exactly what I was doing.
"Good." The word came out flat, emotionless. High praise from me. "Hit the showers. Game prep in ninety minutes."
They dispersed—sweaty, exhausted, satisfied. Maddox clapped Crown's shoulder. Hudson nodded at Parker. Sam's laugh echoed off concrete as someone cracked a joke I didn't catch.
Team energy. Brotherhood.
I felt none of it. Just watched them file toward the locker room, my expression unchanged, that familiar distance settling back into place like armor.
Coach Barrett appeared at my elbow. "They look sharp."
"They'll do."
"You're hell on them sometimes."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to. We both knew fear of disappointing me pushed them harder than any motivational speech ever could.
Barrett studied my face—trying to read something in the blankness. He wouldn't find it. I'd locked everything down tight. Everything except the awareness still humming under my skin. The pull I couldn't quite silence. The girl in the stands I refused to look at again.
Barrett kept talking—something about defensive pairings, adjustments for their top scorer. I nodded at appropriate intervals, tracked the conversation enough to respond when necessary.
But my focus kept fracturing.
The awareness crept up my spine like static electricity. Skin prickling. Heart rate kicking up half a beat.
She was watching again.
I didn't look. Kept my eyes on Barrett, on the ice, on the clipboard in his hands—anywhere except the stands where she sat.
Didn't matter.
I felt her gaze like physical weight.
My chest tightened. Breath came slightly harder. That unwanted heat spreading through my ribs again, making everything feel too close, too sharp.
Stop.
But my body wouldn't listen. Kept reacting to something I had no right to notice. To someone I should've been able to ignore completely.
Barrett said something about zone entries. I grunted agreement.
Another pull. Another tightening.
Christ.
I gripped the edge of the boards until my knuckles went white.
This was a problem. A serious one. Because ignoring her wasn't working anymore.
Barrett clapped his hands twice—sharp cracks that pulled every head toward him.
"All right, listen up." He planted himself center ice, voice carrying to every corner of the rink. "Tonight's not just exhibition. Tonight counts."
Players circled in tighter. Exhaustion forgotten. Game faces sliding into place.
"They're going to come out aggressive," Barrett continued. "Their forecheck's been brutal all season. We get sloppy with the puck, we're going to spend the whole night in our own zone."
Maddox spat on the ice. "Let them come."
"That's exactly the attitude that'll get you benched." Barrett's tone sharpened. "This isn't about ego. It's about discipline. Clean breakouts. Smart decisions. No hero plays."
A few heads nodded.
"Ackerman spent all week drilling defensive rotations for a reason." Barrett gestured toward me without looking. "You execute what he taught you; we control this game. You freelance, you panic, you try to do too much—we lose."
Silence.
"Crown." Barrett's gaze landed on Andrew. "You're going to see double coverage all night. Make the extra pass."
"Yes, Coach."
"Hudson, Parker—I need you eating up minutes. No mistakes."
Both nodded.
"Harding." Barrett's voice softened slightly. "They're going to test you early. Physical play, trash talk, whatever gets under your skin. Don't bite."
Sam's jaw set. "Won't be a problem."
"It better not be." Barrett looked around the circle slowly. "This team has talent. What we need tonight is composure. We stay calm, we stay smart, we walk out of here with two points. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Good." He clapped once more. "Bring it in."
Sticks extended toward the center. Twenty gloved hands piled on top.
"Team on three. One, two, three—"
"TEAM!"
The circle broke.
Players scattered toward the tunnel—voices rising again, energy shifting from focused to loose. Game day swagger returning.
I stood motionless. Let them flow past me like water around stone.
Barrett caught my eye. Nodded once.
I returned it.
Then—stupidly, reflexively—I looked up.
The stands were empty. Just rows of plastic seats reflecting fluorescent light. No small figure hunched forward. No hair-catching shadows. No eyes that saw too much.
Gone.
My chest tightened. Stupid reaction. Completely irrational. She had a job. Responsibilities. No reason to sit through our entire practice watching plays she didn't understand.
I knew that. Didn't stop the hollow ache spreading through my ribs.
You have no right.
I turned toward the tunnel and didn't look back.