Chapter 3
THREE
Jari
I hadn’t chosen this—this city, this team, this chance.
I’d been moved like a piece on a board again, packaged as potential and handed over because someone else thought it was time.
Volunteered felt like the wrong word, but it was the one that stuck.
No consent. No control. Just another place where I was expected to show up grateful, quiet, and valuable.
And then there was Cam—unexpected, bright in a way I didn’t trust, kind without wanting anything back.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt myself pulled toward someone instead of bracing away.
That scared the hell out of me. Wanting meant leverage and risk.
And I’d already learned what happened when people figured out where I was soft.
My father knew exactly what he wanted and what I’d do to keep my mom happy—or at least not scared.
MS wasn’t dramatic most days. It was quiet exhaustion, numb fingers, a body betraying her in small, relentless ways.
He paid for the kind of care that smoothed those edges, then used it to keep me heading in the direction he wanted.
I skated. I signed. I stayed silent. And he called it support.
As long as I played, she was comfortable.
If I complied, she was safe. That wasn’t care. That was ownership.
I couldn’t let myself be attracted to anyone or expose my secrets to anyone.
Attraction made people curious. Curiosity led to questions.
Questions led to attention I couldn’t afford.
My life was known in fragments for a reason.
My mom was my focus—her comfort, her stability, the careful balance that kept her days predictable and her nights quiet.
Everything else was noise. Everything else was a risk.
And now, focus on hockey!
I hit the ice on the last day of evaluation before the roster was set, already bracing for impact—not physical, I was used to that, but the kind that lived in my head, the one where every mistake confirmed what half the league whispered about me.
Rejection. I'd made it this far, and I knew I was good, but even I could see it was between Jonas Keller and me. He was a kid who barely looked old enough to drive, and we were hustling for a position on the fourth line. He was eighteen. Fast, fearless, stupid in the way only someone who hasn’t lived enough to be afraid can be.
Me? I was fast too, but fear lived in my bones, and I'd learned to use it to my advantage, deal with it, overcome it.
I calculated everything automatically. Ice time meant leverage.
Leverage meant money. Money meant the private wing in Finland stayed quiet and clean and staffed by people who spoke gently to my mother instead of over her.
Every stride was a negotiation with my father, and I never stopped losing.
The first drill started with breakout patterns, no hesitation. I caught the first pass cleanly and sent it back with good weight. Carts barked, “Nice, Jari!”
That shouldn’t have thrown me, but it did. Someone on the freaking Railers had passed to me. Intentionally. Someone wanted the puck to start with me.
Then it happened again—another pass, this one from an unexpected source.
Keller, the kid fighting me for the same roster spot, snapped the puck across the zone without even glancing up, as if he knew I’d be there.
Pure instinctive trust. I caught it clean on my tape, the weight perfect, and drove hard toward the slot.
Frosty stepped up to challenge me, stick angled to take away the shooting lane, but something in me—muscle memory, panic, desperation—made me fake the shot and thread a pass between his skates right onto Noah’s stick.
He didn’t score, but he got a damn good chance, and for a heartbeat the whole bench reacted.
A couple of sticks tapped the boards. Even Trick let out a surprised laugh.
And me? I stood there shocked that Keller trusted me enough to dish me the puck in the first place, that I’d made the right read under pressure, that—I don’t know—it felt good.
The ice was different under my skates, almost unsteady, because being included wasn’t something my body knew how to absorb. I fed a puck to Trick on the rush, and he tapped his stick against mine when he circled back, quick and subtle. A compliment. From Trick-the-superstar.
But then shadow anxiety rushed in to counteract it—because the moment I drifted too close to Noah or Trick during a scrimmage, three defenders shifted automatically. Not aggressive. Not pointed. Just… instinctive.
Protecting them from me. A slice of cold slid down my spine. Of course they would. Why wouldn’t they? My father had tried to end Tennant Rowe’s career. He’d injured Bryan Delaney. The Railers were built on survivors of that legacy. And I shared his name.
When even Frosty angled his body between Noah and me on the next cycle drill—not rough, not pointed, just automatic—my lungs constricted.
They didn’t trust me.
Or worse—they were waiting for me to slip.
I got the puck again, cut the corner tight, and pushed into open space too fast, too sharp.
Anxiety made me over-skate everything. I tripped my stride, recovered, heard someone snort a laugh—was that at me?
Shame hit fast, hot under my skin. My chest locked up, breaths stuttering as I reset for the next drill.
Don’t spiral. Don’t give them anything.
And then—unbidden, unwelcome—Cam flickered through my head. The way he’d looked at me as though I wasn’t a problem to solve. Like I wasn’t already failing.
The idea of him seeing me like this made my stomach twist.
Not because I cared what he thought.
Because I did.
The rest of the practice was a blur. Carts kept feeding me passes. Trick included me in rush plays. Jack—Cap—called out, “Good hustle!” every time I didn’t fall on my ass.
But every laugh behind me sounded wrong. Every whisper felt directed at me. Every glance was a judgment I hadn’t earned but would still pay for.
I knew some of it wasn’t real—didn’t matter; the fear rushed in anyway, filling every gap with the worst version of the truth.
When Coach blew the final whistle, we headed back to the locker room, and the space was filled with easy post-practice chatter—sticks tapping, towels snapping, guys chirping each other. Noah said something to Trick, and they rolled out this whole thing.
“I’m petitioning the league to move you to rec hockey,” Trick groused, peeling tape off his stick.
Noah snorted. “Funny, coming from a man who wipes out on a blue line like it’s his sworn enemy.”
“That was one time.” Trick threw a roll of tape at him.
“Three times.” Noah caught it and threw it back. “If we count preseason. And practice. And warmups.”
A couple of guys laughed. Trick pointed a warning finger at Noah. “Keep talking, Gunny, and I’m stealing your pregame playlist and replacing it with polka.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Their chirping bounced around the room—easy, familiar, warm. It should have felt inviting. Instead, it curled around me like something I wasn't allowed to touch, a reminder of everything I didn’t know how to step into.
I didn’t join in.
I didn’t know how.
I sat in my stall and slowly stripped my gloves, found my watch, put it on, and folded and unfolded the clasp with my thumb.
The click-snap-click built a rhythm in my head I could breathe to.
Coach was chatting to Cap, and Cap glanced over at me—the kind of quick look saying a decision had been made.
This was it. The moment I got told I was headed to the AHL for conditioning or some shit.
I wanted so badly to belong that it ached, a deep, hot pressure under my ribs, something stupid and childish and humiliating, but real all the same.
People moved around me. Some nodded. Others… didn't. Noah tried to talk to me, and I knew I answered, but it was distant.
Cap walked past, gave me a quick, solid knock on the shoulder pad. “Nice work today, Jari. Coach wants you in his office.”
My heart dropped. “Yes, Cap.” I stripped off my pads, down to a T-shirt, pulled on shorts and running shoes, and headed out—laughter following me. They must have known I'd been canned. It was only a matter of time.
Coach Morin gestured me in, shut the door behind us, and leaned on the edge of his desk.
“I won't make you wait,” he began, and I steeled myself for rejection. “You made the roster.”
I stared at him. Blinked.
“Coach?”
He smiled—a quiet acknowledgment I’d earned this.
“You’ll dress for the first two games. I want you on the fourth line with Mules and Becks.
After that, we reassess. Congratulations.
” Niklas Müller and Tobias Becker had a year of Railers hockey under their belt, a solid fourth line pair who'd lost their wing to a retirement, and even though Becks pretty much ignored me, Mules was friendly enough.
Something fluttered in my ribcage—small, trembling, unfamiliar. Hope, maybe.
“Thank you, Coach,” I murmured.
“And,” he continued, sliding a printed schedule across the desk, “your first welcome session with Dr. Hale is today in two hours. Top floor, admin wing. Gives you time to shower, eat something, breathe.”
My stomach twisted. “Yes, Coach,” I said, although I probably sounded defeated. Every player here saw the sports psychologist, and I was no different, but I’d already understood that for me it wouldn’t be one appointment and done.
“This isn’t punitive, Jari. It’s support,” Coach said. “Everyone on this team sits in that office at some point. You’re not alone.”
I nodded.
He dismissed me kindly. “Go decompress. Take a walk. Get out of your head.”
If only it were that simple.
The locker room was emptying now—guys filtering out, gear dumped, showers running in the distance—but Cap was still there, along with Noah and Trick. A couple of other players hovered nearby, watching, curious.