Chapter 7 Colt
Colt
The Clawhouse smells like sweat this morning, and I fucking love it.
Weights clank against their cradles, sneakers squeak on rubber flooring, and the guttural symphony of grown men pushing themselves to the edge fills every corner of the Snow Leopards' elite training complex.
I'm not part of it, of course.
I'm off to the side, perched on a foam mat like a goddamn kindergartner at nap time. I've been looping a resistance band around my ankle while Willa Jameson watches me for half an hour now.
"Alright, now do the left leg again. Twenty reps. Slowly." Willa crosses her arms and gives me the look—the one that says I know you're about to half-ass this, and I will end you. "And when I say slowly, I mean it. Not whatever that speed-demon nonsense was on the last set."
"That was controlled power, Willa."
"That was you trying to finish early so you could go bother Samuel."
She's not wrong. I can see him over at the squat rack, headphones in, jaw set, looking like a recruitment poster for the NHL. I've got a solid bit planned about his new beard that I've been workshopping in my head for forty minutes.
"Twenty reps," she repeats, tapping her pen against her tablet like a metronome. "Left leg. If I see you compensating with your hip again, I'm adding ten."
"You know, most people lead with positive reinforcement. A 'great job, Colt.' A 'wow, your calves look incredible today, Colt.' Maybe a little gold star on my sticker chart."
Willa doesn't even blink. "You want a gold star, earn it. Left leg. Now."
I loop the band around my ankle and start pulling. Slowly.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the mountains glow white with fresh morning snow. The view is stunning in here. Postcard-worthy. The kind of thing that makes tourists weep and real estate agents salivate.
But sitting back in this room, working out with the guys… I know I'd trade it all for fifteen minutes of full-contact practice.
Samuel moves over to the bench press, driving the bar up with the kind of controlled fury that makes his veins pop like roadmaps. Gabe is attacking the heavy bag in the corner, each impact sending a deep thwack that I feel right in the back of my darkest memories.
And Cade…
Cade is doing something with a pair of kettlebells that involves way too much spinning and not nearly enough actual exercise.
I drag the band against the burn in my left leg, going slow like Willa demanded, and let myself just… sit in it.
I've loved this my whole life.
The locker room banter, the team breakfasts, the chirping, the bruises.
It's been my family. My identity.
From the first time my dad laced my skates at four years old, hockey was me. And since the injury, it's felt like three weeks alone in my apartment just went and ripped it all away.
I knew I'd be back eventually, but twenty-one days of silence and trying to remember what I sounded like when there wasn't an audience… that was tough.
It was the first time in my life I had to think about who Colt Lane was without a jersey on his back.
Now sitting on this foam mat, watching my brothers grind through their morning lift while Willa hovers over me like an extremely polite drill sergeant?
Yeah. It's good to be back.
Even if Coach is pacing the perimeter of the room like a wolf who hasn't eaten in a week.
"JENSEN!" Coach Ashford's voice cracks through the Clawhouse like a whip.
He's stalking between stations in his Snow Leopards jacket, clipboard in hand, radiating the energy of a man who hasn't slept enough and trusts no one.
"LESS SHOWBOATING, MORE LIFTING. Game's in two days, gentlemen. Act like it."
Cade catches my eye mid-swing and grins when Coach shifts his attention to yell at someone else.
"So, Lane… You done playing baker boy yet? We could use you out there."
I force a grin back, ignoring the twist in my gut. "Miss me that much, Jensen?"
"Miss your pretty face blocking shots? Always."
Cade sets down the kettlebells with a thud that earns him another glare from Coach.
"Hey, real talk though." He drops onto the bench beside Willa, swiping a towel across his neck. "You been out for weeks, Lane. Don't tell me the puck bunnies haven't been blowing up your phone. Keeping you entertained, eh?"
I shake my head when he winks and sticks his tongue out at me. "Jensen—"
"I'm just saying. Last season? You had what, a different girl every Friday? That redhead from the Lounge alone—"
"Oh. Matilda?"
"Matilda." Cade whistles low and nods knowingly. "So who's been keeping you warm? Concussion recovery's gotta be lonely. You back on the apps? You got someone on rotation? Don't get me wrong, Paigey is beautiful and I'm happy as hell with her. I'm just looking out for you brother."
My mouth opens to fire back with something filthy… something about Matilda's flexibility or the way her mouth felt. Or that bartender I had in Vancouver during Playoffs. Or any one of the bodies that used to fill the empty hours with pleasure.
But my brain serves up something else entirely.
Zoey.
Yesterday, when she was bent over the display case, restocking croissants and those black leggings stretched across her ass. She had flour smudged on them from where she kept wiping her hands, and all I could think was what if they were my hand prints.
My cock twitches in my training shorts, and I shift on the foam mat before Willa clocks it as a medical anomaly.
"Twenty reps, Colt." Willa taps her pen impatiently, eyeing Cade with a warning look she must have learned from Coach. "Cade, stop distracting him."
I pull the band tighter.
Because the truth is, I don't want a Friday night warm body anymore.
"JENSEN!" Nico barks again, and Cade snaps back to his kettlebells with the speed of a man who values his roster spot.
I return to my bands, counting reps I stopped caring about three sets ago even though my head's still in the bakery, thinking about thighs so thick and sexy, a man could spend a weekend between them and still feel ungrateful for the privilege.
Christ.
Willa finishes running me through the rest of the circuit, checking everything from the balance board, to single-leg squats and some rotational core work that makes my obliques scream.
Eventually, Willa sets down her tablet and looks at me with a tiny smile.
"Good news, Lane."
My heart stutters. "Yeah?"
"As far as I can tell, your balance is back to baseline and your cognitive response times have normalized.
Your sleep data from the tracker has also been solid.
" She pauses, and I swear she's enjoying watching me sweat.
"I'm clearing you for light work. Some skating, but non-contact drills only. You can start next week."
The sound that comes out of me is not dignified at all.
It's somewhere between a yelp and a fucking war cry that's loud enough to make Samuel rack his barbell and Gabe stop mid-punch.
"Are you serious?"
Willa nods. "I'm always serious."
I shoot up, my hands gripping her shoulders.
"Willa Jameson. I could kiss you right now."
She pulls back, her eyes widening. "Please don't. Nico would kill you, and I'd have to fill out the paperwork."
From across the room, Nico's head swivels toward us like a hawk spotting a field mouse. His eyes narrow directly at me and I release Willa's shoulders immediately.
"Purely platonic! All professional! Very much keeping my lips to myself over here, Coach!"
"Smart man," Nico mutters, and goes back to his clipboard.
But I'm vibrating. Genuinely, physically vibrating with the kind of joy I haven't felt since before that hit turned my world sideways.
I ride the high straight across the Clawhouse toward Nico and Samuel, who are now huddled near the whiteboard covered in line combinations and defensive zone diagrams.
"Coach. Willa's cleared me for next week. But before I go…" I clap my hands together, grinning from ear to ear. "Quick question."
Nico doesn't look up. "If it's about your playlist privileges, the answer is still no."
"Not that."
Although I am going to revisit that conversation soon, because I still think Jensen's music taste is an actual crime against humanity.
"I need tickets for Saturday's game. Couple of good seats, but not in the VIP section, if that's okay. Maybe behind the bench?"
Nico looks up, one eyebrow raised. "Since when do you need tickets? You've got a permanent seat."
"They're… um… they're not for me." I shrug, aiming for casual. "I thought it'd be nice, you know. For Delaney's community program. Bring the Butter Batch crew for some good ol' fashioned content opportunity, you know?"
"The Butter Batch crew," Samuel grunts. "You mean Zoey."
"And Morgan."
Samuel and Nico exchange a look that lasts approximately two seconds too long.
"Decent idea, Lane. I'll arrange it," Nico says, turning back to his whiteboard.
I grin, clap him on the shoulder and turn to grab my bag from the bench against the wall.
This is nice.
I'm feeling good. Really good.
For the first time in weeks, that hollow pit in my stomach is starting to fill with something warm and bright.
Now I get to go and tell Zoey the good news, and surprise her with tickets for the weekend's game.
I hoist my sports bag onto my shoulder, but as I start to head towards the door, something slides out of the unzipped front pocket, hitting the rubber floor with a thump.
I look down and—
No. No, no, no.
Zoey's leather notebook lies open on the Clawhouse floor, its worn caramel cover facing up. The pages are all fanned out like a confession I never meant to make.
I lunge for it before anyone sees, but Gabe Devereaux has already bent down and scooped it up with those massive mitts of his.
"What's this?" He turns it over, one dark eyebrow rising as he flips a page. "A diary, Lane?"
"Gabe, can I just—"
"Let's see what we have here." Gabe flips to a random page, eyes gleaming. "'Dear diary, today I learned how to frost a cupcake—'" His voice drops into a breathy tone that sounds absolutely nothing like me. "'—and I think I'm falling in love with the way Zoey smells.'"