Chapter 9 Sharp Teeth
Sharp Teeth
Lenzin
The tunnel reverberates with a volume that feels excessive.
Not the crowd's roar, not yet. This is the internal clamor: the scrape of skates against concrete, the building’s low hum, the irregular tapping of sticks against walls echoing like a heartbeat.
Usually, this part calms me. The rhythm, the structure, the certainty that everything ahead follows its own set of rules—even the violence.
But tonight, my calm is skewed. Not absent.
Not shattered. Just slightly off-kilter, like a clock that ticks but is perpetually a minute fast. Annoying enough to be felt. Important enough to take note of.
I roll my shoulders slowly, deliberately.
My helmet presses tighter than usual, and I feel a click in my jaw as I shift it.
I catalog these sensations, treating them like data points rather than worries.
Ahead of me, Aleks bounces lightly on his skates in a way that used to annoy me but now mostly brings a smile.
Deacon is further along, already lost in his own thoughts, tapping his posts with a kind of reverence, locked in and ready
I take my position without haste. This is where I belong; this is the part I get.
Yet, beneath it all, something thrums under my skin.
As we step onto the ice, the lights blaze too brightly, Florida’s brightness even at night—aggressive and unappreciated.
The crowd noise surges instantly, loud and raw, like enthusiasm stripped of nuance.
The Gators’ logo at center ice feels smug beneath my blades.
I skate my warmup laps with purpose, testing my edges, fine-tuning my stride. The ice feels both fast and wrong, slicker than Tampa yet burdened with the same humidity-softened resistance. I correct. Adapt. Compensate.
Aleks glides past me, flicking a puck at my shins. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet,” I reply.
“Not like this.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “You’re not exactly chatty yourself.”
Before he can respond, I push off and skate away.
The anthem washes over the arena, a blur of sound. Stick taps echo, helmets adjust with deliberate clicks, and then the puck drops.
On the first shift, I keep it straightforward. My gap control is tight, stick positioned firmly in the lane. I retrieve the puck cleanly and send it up the ice without fuss. That part of me feels solid, unyielding. Deacon gives a small nod of acknowledgment from his position.
On the second shift, I decide to step up a half beat earlier than usual. It pays off; the winger hesitates, loses the puck, and I move it up the ice smoothly. No harm done, yet a faint buzz of satisfaction prickles at the back of my mind. I push it away.
By the third shift, I finish a check with more force than necessary. The boards rattle beneath the impact, and I feel it resonate through my shoulder, a sharp reminder of the physicality of the game. It’s clean, it’s legal, and it’s aggressive.
Aleks calls out from the crease, “Alright then.”
I skate past him, offering no reply.
The Gators chatter incessantly, their voices rising above the thick humidity that clings to the air like a damp blanket.
A whistle pierces through the noise, and suddenly their center collides with me, a casual bump meant to test my resolve.
“Easy, big guy,” he grins, expecting a friendly smile to break the tension.
I don’t give him one. Instead, I lock my gaze onto his, unyielding, until the ref intervenes, forcing him to retreat, still smirking as if he’s planted a seed of doubt. I know I shouldn’t let this escalate, but I do anyway.
By the end of the first period, I’ve absorbed more contact than usual. I’m not out of position; I’m not being reckless. I’m simply… present. Assertive. Less inclined to let plays fizzle out unnoticed.
Deacon glances at me, brow furrowed. “You good?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay smart.”
“I am smart,” I retort, the words sharper than intended.
He exhales through his nose, a sound of mild concern. “You’re something tonight.”
As the second period unfolds, the game tightens.
The Gators ramp up their pace, and I respond by closing the gap more aggressively.
I pinch into the play when I shouldn’t, but I recover just in time, feeling that familiar buzz again—not relief, but satisfaction.
This isn’t the way I typically play. I know that.
A scrum erupts near the net after Deacon freezes the puck. Gloves stay on, but bodies clash, shoving begins, and I move in immediately, positioning myself between Deacon and a Gators forward who’s running his mouth too much.
“Back up,” I command.
He laughs, a mocking sound. “You his bodyguard now?”
“Yes,” I reply flatly.
He shoves me, testing my resolve.
I shove back harder. The ref intervenes, barking warnings that echo in the chaos. I skate away, pulse steady, jaw clenched tight. On the bench, Aleks leans closer, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’re on fire tonight.”
“I’m just efficient,” I reply, my tone flat.
“Right,” he says, skepticism dripping from his words. “That’s definitely what this is.”
Midway through the period, I find myself in the penalty box for interference. It’s a call I saw coming the moment I committed to the hit, but I did it anyway. No point in arguing. I glide to the box, settle onto the hard seat, resting my elbows on my knees while I fix my gaze on the ice.
The crowd erupts in boos, a wave of sound that crashes over me, and I let it wash over me, the noise a familiar backdrop.
Inside the box, the din dulls, but the buzzing under my skin sharpens instead of fading. It’s irritation, not anger—an incessant hum that refuses to quiet.
We kill the penalty. Deacon makes a save that’s more flair than necessity, and I can’t help but smirk at the show he puts on.
Back on the ice, I play with more weight.
Not sloppily, there’s a difference. I block shots with purpose, lean into passing lanes like a wall, and clear the crease with a force that commands attention.
The Gators react in kind, their frustration simmering as the game edges toward a boiling point.
Third period. Tie game. This is where I typically become precise, surgical even. Tonight, however, I’m all blunt force.
I step into a winger at the blue line, making solid contact that echoes in the arena. The crowd erupts again, a cacophony of cheers and jeers mixing in the air. I don’t glance at the replay; I don’t need to, I was there.
Aleks skates past, shaking his head. “You’re gonna make them hate you.”
“I’m fine with that,” I reply, a hint of a smile tugging at my lips.
“You’re gonna wear yourself out.”
“Also fine,” I shoot back, adrenaline surging.
As the period wears on, we take the lead; Leo Stone thrives in hostile environments, and the atmosphere is thick with tension. The Gators pull their goalie, and everything compresses—the stakes rising with each tick of the clock. He scores.
I block another shot, the impact jolting through my shin like a live wire.
I ignore the pain. They dump it in, and I retrieve the puck under pressure, bracing myself for the hit.
I absorb it, keep my feet moving, and instead of opting for the safe rim, I charge through neutral ice, daring anyone to challenge me.
Someone does, and it ends poorly for them. I dump the puck deep into their zone, peel back, and the final seconds bleed away in a chaotic blur of bodies and noise.
The horn sounds right after Smith gets one in. Win.
I stand there for a moment, chest heaving, stick planted against the ice, feeling the aftershocks of a game played just outside my usual rhythm.
Aleks nudges my shoulder. “You were a menace.”
“Effective,” I correct him, a satisfied smirk creeping across my face.
Deacon thumps my back. “You can’t do that every night.”
“I won’t,” I assure him, and I mean it. Probably.
The game is over.
The win is logged, the tape will be reviewed, the bruises will bloom where they always do. Normally, this is the part where we move. Shower, load, board the redeye, pretend sleep is a real thing that exists on planes.
Tonight, we don’t move. The weather has other plans.
Thunderstorms roll in fast and unapologetic, the kind Florida does best. Airport delays stacked on top of each other. The call comes down while I’m halfway through unlacing my skates.
No flight out tonight. Earliest option is early morning.
There’s a collective groan in the room, loud and theatrical. Hank sprawls dramatically across a bench like he’s been personally betrayed by aviation. Aleks just stares at his phone, calculating time zones and lost hours with the expression of a man who hates inefficiency more than humidity.
Deacon is, predictably, calm, even though I know he wants to get back to his family. “Could be worse.”
“It could not,” Hank replies immediately. “This is the worst.”
His new girlfriend has been in Europe since New Year’s Day; she arrives back in NYC tomorrow morning.
I glance at Aleks, who looks like a country song was written about him as he stabs the phone screen so hard I am sure the glass is cracking.
We pack anyway. Habit. Superstition. No one fully trusts the idea of staying put until they’re back on the bus.
By the time we’re in the hotel again, it’s late. Later than I want it to be. My body is tired in a way that is deep, vibrating, and everything feels slightly raw. The postgame adrenaline has burned off, leaving only irritation and a low-grade ache behind my eyes.
I shower. I stand under the water longer than necessary, letting the heat pound against my shoulders, trying to reset myself back into alignment.
It mostly works. Mostly.
Back in the room, Aleks is already on the phone, pacing, clearly delivering a dramatic recap to Sofie. I don’t listen. I don’t need to. I know the beats. I’ve heard them for a couple of months now.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my phone.
This is stupid, I tell myself.
This is logistics.
That’s it.
They were expecting us on the redeye. That matters.
Lucy’s schedule matters. Hildy’s expectations matter.
This is not personal, it’s informational.
If I don’t say something and we show up hours later than planned, that creates confusion.
Confusion turns into inconvenience. Inconvenience turns into unnecessary tension.
I am preventing tension. That is what this is.
I unlock my phone, open the messenger, and type out her name, one I just added and wish I had months ago, but that would mean my life was my own. It’s not. Even my time is borrowed.
I don’t overthink the wording; it is what it is.
Me:
Hey. Just a heads up, the weather grounded us. No redeye tonight. We’ll be on the early morning flight instead.
I read it once. Twice. Neutral. Adult. Boring.
I send it.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
That’s… not ideal.
I watch it blink on and off, on and off, like she’s drafting and deleting, fighting with herself. I imagine her sitting somewhere quiet, exhausted, probably. Or she’s found the book and is going to tell me off.
It seems like a lifetime I wait for a reply, and finally, the message comes through.
Hildy:
Okay.
Just that. A period. It seems heavy, intentional even.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Okay is fine, I tell myself. Okay means received. Okay means no follow-up required. Okay means this is handled.
I should put the phone down.
I don’t.
Another message appears.
Hildy:
Thanks for letting me know. Always good to have a heads up.
There it is. Polite. Sharp around the edges. Like a knife wrapped in a napkin.
I type before I can reconsider.
Me:
I didn’t want to mess up the morning.
The bubble appears again. This time it stays.
I wait.
Hildy:
Very thoughtful of you.
That’s it. That’s the stab. Right?
I exhale slowly through my nose, resisting the urge to respond defensively. She’s tired. Overtired people are allowed to be prickly. I’ve spent enough time in locker rooms to know that.
I choose restraint.
Me:
It’s not a big change. I just don’t want it to throw Lucy off. We’ll be in early if the storm passes.
There’s a pause this time. Longer. Long enough that I consider the possibility she’s fallen back asleep.
Then my phone buzzes again.
Hildy:
Sure. Early is relative.
I close my eyes briefly, trying not to dissect that, but how could I not?
Aleks looks over from his side of the room. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
He squints. “You look like you’re arguing with someone who isn’t here.”
“I’m not arguing,” I reply. “I’m updating.”
He laughs softly. “Updating?”
I ignore him and look back at my phone.
I could stop here. I should stop here. This does not need to be a conversation. This does not need tone analysis. This does not need anything more than logistics.
And yet.
Me:
Lucy okay?
The response is immediate. No typing bubble hesitation this time.
Hildy:
She’s asleep. I’m awake.
That one lands.
I shift back on the bed, tension settling into my shoulders again. I picture her pacing, maybe sitting at the kitchen table, maybe leaning against the counter. I do not picture the book. I refuse to.
Me:
Long night?
There’s a beat.
Then…
Hildy:
You could say that.
I almost smile. Almost. I don’t push. That would be a mistake. She’s not inviting conversation; she’s tolerating it. There’s a difference, and I’m not an idiot.
Me:
Sorry to add to it. We’ll text when we land.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, and appears again.
Hildy:
I always appreciate knowing what tomorrow looks like. Safe flight.
That’s the end. That’s the line. Clear. Clean. A closed door that doesn’t need to be slammed to make the point.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the bed.
Aleks watches me for a second, then shakes his head. “You look worse now.”
“I’m tired,” I say.
“That’s not just tired. That’s…” he replies.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain hammer against the windows. Somewhere between Florida humidity and delayed flights, I’ve managed to open a door I told myself I was keeping closed.
Not because I wanted anything. Because I had an excuse.
I close my eyes and tell myself, firmly, that excuses are not the same thing as intentions.
Even if my head still feels off.
Even if sleep, once again, refuses to cooperate.