Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Haydn
The sound of skates slicing across the ice echoes in the arena, a crisp, familiar rhythm that usually locks me into focus. But today? Today, it feels like background noise, like it’s happening to someone else. I flex my gloves, watching as Mason winds up for a slapshot at the far end of the rink. The puck streaks past the goalie’s outstretched glove and slams into the net with a hollow clang. Sticks tap against the ice in approval, voices cheering, but the energy doesn’t reach me.
It’s like I’m here, but not here.
I press my stick against the ice, forcing myself to take a breath, to tune in. The cold bites at my face through the cage of my mask, a feeling that usually steadies me. But instead of pulling me into the game, it just reminds me of everything else.
My net keeps getting hit with pucks. It’s like I can’t stop anything today. This is the one place on earth I’ve always felt invincible. Unstoppable. But lately, it’s like there’s this invisible wall between me and the game. My instincts feel off. My focus keeps drifting.
“Wesford.” Coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. I turn, already bracing myself for whatever he’s about to lay into me about.
“You planning to join us today or are you just here for the free skate?” he shouts from the bench, his arms crossed, the kind of look on his face that would make a rookie shake in their skates. “You can always come by at five when the employees’ kids get to enjoy the ice.”
I want to flip him the finger, but obviously I can’t. So, I nod once and push off with my stick. The ice feels good under me, routine, but not enough to drown out the noise in my head. I skate to my crease, tap the goalposts with my stick four times—another ritual I’ve done a thousand times—and crouch into position.
“Alright, boys,” Coach yells. “Hopefully, Wesford’s awake now. Let’s give him something to defend.”
The scrimmage starts up again, and the puck zips toward me almost immediately. Thompson takes a shot from the blue line, and I block it without thinking, the rebound bouncing off my pads. Another shot comes in close, a quick one from Hanson, and I glove it out of the air.
“Not bad,” Hanson says with a grin, skating past me. “Still got it, huh?”
I nod, forcing a smirk, but my heart’s not in it. They don’t know—can’t know—what’s going on in my head. How every time I focus on the puck, something pulls me back to her. To Ophelia. To Keane. To the fucking mess that my life is. Me living in a fucking hotel because I can’t be at my house.
The play picks up again, faster now, and I’m scrambling to keep up. The puck comes from every angle, and I’m blocking, sliding, doing what I’ve trained my whole life to do. But even when I make the saves, it feels wrong. Sluggish. Like I’m just going through the motions.
Then it happens.
A shot from Hanson on the left wing. I see it coming, but I don’t react fast enough. The puck zips past my shoulder and slams into the back of the net.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my stick against the ice.
“Shake it off, Wesford,” Coach yells, but his tone isn’t encouraging—it’s frustrated. Disappointed.
I tighten my grip on my stick, forcing myself to reset, to focus. The next play is already starting, but I can feel the eyes on me. My teammates, my coach, the assistants on the bench. They’re all waiting for me to snap out of it.
By the time practice ends, my jersey is soaked, my legs are burning, and my head feels like it’s been run over by a Zamboni. I’m one of the last off the ice, dragging myself toward the locker room when Coach calls my name.
“Wesford.”
I glance up to see him standing by the owner, Mr. Landry. Great. Exactly what I need—a double team.
“Come with us,” Landry says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I follow them into the office, the door clicking shut behind me. Coach leans against the desk, arms crossed, while Landry takes the chair, steepling his fingers like he’s about to lay down the law.
“You want to tell us what the hell’s going on with you?” Coach starts, his voice gruff but not unkind.
I shake my head, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I’m fine. Just an off day.”
“Bullshit,” Landry says, his voice calm but firm. “This isn’t just today, Wesford. You’ve been off since camp started. Hell, you’ve been off for about a month.”
I don’t say anything, because what the hell can I say? That they’re right? That my head’s been anywhere but here? That every time I step onto the ice, all I can think about is my life falling apart. My fears getting the best out of me. I walked out before she did and I feel like a total fucking asshole for that.
But also, she isn’t really giving it her all. I’m all in and her . . . she’s not and I know it now. What am I supposed to do? But that shouldn’t matter. Not when the thing that’s supposed to matter the most—hockey—is on the line.
Because deep down I know that if I ever have to choose between hockey and Ophelia, there’s no choosing. Ophelia is always first.
“You’re one of the best goalies in the league,” Landry continues. “We’re paying you to be the backbone of this team. To be the guy who makes the big saves when it counts. But right now? You’re not that guy.”
“That’s enough,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended.
“No, it’s not,” Coach says, his tone cutting through me. “You want to know what’s enough? Enough is us losing games because our goalie’s head isn’t in it. Enough is you dragging the team down because you can’t figure out your shit off the ice. We need you, Haydn. But not like this.”
I glare at him, my fists clenching at my sides. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel it every time I miss a shot? Every time I let the team down?”
“Then do something about it,” Landry says, his voice softening slightly. “Whatever’s going on, figure it out. Because if you don’t, we will. And you’re not going to like our solution.”
The words hit me like a slap to the face. They don’t say it outright, but I know what they mean. If I can’t get my head on straight, they’ll bench me. Or worse, trade me.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet their eyes. “I’ll fix it,” I say, my voice low but steady. “You have my word.”
They exchange a look, but neither of them says anything. Landry nods, and Coach claps me on the shoulder—hard enough to make me stumble a little—before heading for the door.
“See you tomorrow, Wesford,” he says over his shoulder. “And you better be present this time.”
I stand there for a moment after they leave, staring at the empty room. The truth is, I’ve been playing like I’m a rookie. Like I’m just waiting for something to click back into place. But they’re right.
It’s time to stop waiting. Time to stop letting everything outside this rink dictate who I am here.
I’m a goalie. The best one this team has ever had.
And it’s time I started playing like it.