Chapter 7
seven
MIKE
Ice showers off my skate blades like crushed diamonds, catching the arena lights before vanishing into the white as I try to get on the defensive side of the ice.
As I move as fast as I can, I watch Maine wind up for a slap shot from the blue line, all six-foot-five of him coiling like a spring-loaded sledgehammer.
The puck screams toward the net—a comet of rubber that I track without conscious thought—and my stick flicks up, intercepting the missile with a satisfying crack that reverberates through my gloves and up my forearms, the puck dropping to my blade, ready for me to set up the next attack.
God, I’ve missed this.
This perfect marriage of instinct and execution that makes everything else in life feel clumsy and overthought.
As I skate forward, two defenders converge like predators closing on wounded prey. My thighs burn as I deke left and Kellerman bites hard, his momentum carrying him into next week. Still puppyish in his defensive reads, he reaches with his stick instead of moving his feet.
Rookie mistake, kid.
My eyes log Cooper moving into position by the far post, and the passing lane exists for maybe half a heartbeat, a sliver of geometry that my lizard brain calculates faster than any conscious thought. I thread the needle, the puck sliding flat and true across the ice, right onto Cooper’s stick.
Cooper doesn’t move or wind up a big shot.
He doesn’t have to. He just elevates the puck to the roof of the net with surgical precision while Rook flops across the crease a heartbeat too late.
The goal siren blares, the guys on my side of the drill scream with elation, and Rook hangs his head and growls in frustration.
“Now THAT’S what I’m talking about!” Coach Pearson’s whistle shrills, his voice carrying that particular brand of coach enthusiasm that’s equal parts genuine and performative. He glides over, applauding with his gloves. “Textbook transition, Altman. That’s championship hockey right there.”
I nod, but the trust in his voice sits heavy in my gut, curdling with the knowledge of what I’ve done and what he doesn’t know. His daughter’s skin under my hands, her taste on my tongue, the way she looked at me in that parking lot like I was simultaneously the best and worst thing ever.
Yeah, Coach. I’m a real stand-up guy.
“Just reading the ice,” I say, then circle back to center, skating away from my guilt.
Maine cruises past, jersey dark with sweat. “Christ, Mike, leave some glory for the peasants.”
“Pretty sure you peaked in peewee,” I chirp back. “I was pulling those dekes when you were still figuring out which end of the stick to hold.”
“Bullshit.” Maine’s grin could power a small city. “I came out of the womb with sick hands. Ask Rook’s mom…”
As I laugh, Cooper glides over and bumps my glove with his. “Beautiful feed, Cap. Barely had to work for that one.”
“Beautiful finish,” I return. “Maine would’ve tried to go five-hole and hit Rook in the cup.”
“One time!” Maine protests, tossing his stick with disgust. “One fucking time and you?—”
Coach Pearson’s whistle cuts through Maine’s inevitable defense of his shot selection.
The coach drifts to center ice with that effortless authority that makes you want to shut up and listen without him having to raise his voice.
Our last coach thought volume meant respect, but Coach Pearson seems to know better.
“Red line, gentlemen,” he calls. “Five-on-zero rush, then back check. Crisp passes, smart decisions.” His gaze lands on Maine. “No showboating, Hamilton.”
Maine’s eyes go cartoon-wide, all wounded innocence. “I’m offended by the very suggestion that I’m anything but the model of a team player…”
Coach’s mouth twitches. He’s learning Maine’s particular frequency of chaos, how to tune it without trying to silence it completely. “Altman, take your line.”
We execute the rush with mechanical precision—pass, pass, shot—and Schmidt buries it.
Clean. Efficient. Boring as hell, but that’s what coaches want to see.
As we loop back for the back check, something loosens in my chest. The anxiety knot that’s been my constant companion since the ankle went sideways.
Because this?
This feels like flying again.
“Looking sharp, Altman.” Coach skates close as we finish, voice pitched for my ears only. “The scouts will be eating you with their eyes.”
The words land like a slap shot to the sternum.
Scouts.
Watching.
Judging whether I still have what it takes or if I’m just another coulda-been champion with a sob story and surgical scars. Add in the fact that I’m standing here accepting praise from a man whose trust I’ve already shattered, even if he doesn’t know it yet, and my insides twist into knots.
“They’ll get their money’s worth,” I say, hoping confidence can paper over guilt.
One more nod from Coach, then, “Hit the showers, boys. Good work today.”
The guys peel off toward the tunnel, but I linger, taking lazy laps around the rink to cool down.
The arena settles into that cathedral quiet you only get in empty rinks, just the whisper of steel on ice and the hum of refrigeration units.
I pick up speed, carving hard turns that send up rooster tails of snow.
Left crossover. Right crossover.
The ankle holds steady, no wobble, no sharp reminder of ligaments that betrayed me. I push it harder, with tighter turns, really laying into the edges of my skate blades. And each successful cut unravels another thread of the fear I’ve been wearing like a straitjacket.
“Kicking the tires?”
Coach Pearson watches from the boards, having materialized like smoke from a magic trick. My heart hammers against my ribs. Jesus, did he find out? Is this where he corners me about Sophie? Tells me exactly which body parts he’ll remove if I go near her again?
“Something like that,” I say, gliding over on legs that suddenly feel like overcooked spaghetti.
“How’s it feel?” He nods at my ankle, and I realize he’s just here as a coach, not a vengeful father.
“Honestly?” I shrug. “Like it never happened. Better, even. Doc says the PT built it back stronger.”
He studies me with those quiet eyes that probably see way more than they let on. “You know, I pulled your sophomore tape. You were something else, Altman.”
The past tense stings like a face full of snow. “Planning to be something else again, Coach.”
His smile creases the corners of his eyes. “That’s what I want to hear. See you tomorrow.”
He heads for the tunnel, and I take one more lap before following him into the underworld of the locker room. The smell hits like a physical presence—eau de hockey bag, with notes of fermenting equipment, guy funk, and whatever biohazard Maine’s cultivating in his gloves.
It’s putrid and perfect.
The boys sprawl in various stages of undress. Some already trail steam from the showers, others still peeling away layers of gear like molting insects. I drop onto the bench at my stall, working my skate laces with fingers that remember this routine in their bones.
“Altman!” Rook emerges from the shower with a towel around his waist. “You were fucking vintage out there, buddy. Ankle’s good?”
“Mint,” I confirm, yanking my practice jersey over my head. “Doc says I’m part cyborg now, all titanium and determination.”
“There we go!” Rook beams like a golden retriever who just found a tennis ball. “Three solid practices in a row, Cap. We’re proud of?—”
“Rook.” Maine doesn’t even look up from unlacing his skates. “Don’t jerk him off. He’s a man with a functioning ego, not a toddler who finally shit in the toilet.”
Rook’s face shifts into something unexpectedly serious. “I’m not being condescending, asshole. I’m being supportive. There’s a difference.”
Maine shoots me a look that suggests Rook might be having a stroke.
Even I’m waiting for the punchline, because philosophical Rook is like finding a unicorn at a truck stop.
He’s usually the loudest guy in the room, and about as subtle as a brick to the head, so this version is something unexpected.
But Rook powers on, water still dripping from his shoulders. “Maybe if we were better at actually supporting each other instead of just chirping all the time, Mike wouldn’t have gone through such a shitshow last year. So think about it, asshole…”
The words hit hard and last year floods back—the pills that made everything fuzzy, the darkness that sat on my chest like a lead blanket, the way I turned into an entirely different person. The way I tortured those around me because I was too proud to admit I was drowning.
“Fuck.” Rook’s face crumbles as he takes in whatever look is on my face. “Sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean to?—”
“No.” The word comes out steadier than I feel. “You’re right, actually. We should be better about that stuff.”
I stand, shoulder-checking Rook gently as I pass. “Speaking of support, I’m meeting my number one cheerleader for pizza. Any of you want to come?”
“If this is Maine’s mom again…” Rook starts, clearly desperate to return to safer comedic ground, and taking the right of reply after Maine’s earlier quip.
As Maine launches himself at Rook with a war cry, I escape to the showers, knowing they’ll be wrestling like overzealous puppies for the next ten minutes or so. But even as I refuse to intervene, I’m glad to be back among my guys, because while doing new things is fun this is also part of who I am.
Balance.
Under the shower, the hot water pounds against my shoulders, each drop a tiny fist working out the knots. I close my eyes and I stay under longer than necessary, letting the heat and white noise wash away practice, guilt, and the phantom memories of being with Sophie.
Stop it. She made it clear. You’re done.
I sigh and open my eyes, finishing my shower and toweling off. And, when I return to my stall, towel around my waist, Cooper’s pulling on a Pine Barrens hoodie. His hair sticks up in damp spikes as he locks onto me, and it’s clear he’s got something to say.
“How’s Andy?” he asks, voice deliberately casual. “She still with Declan or what?”
I point at him. “Don’t even think about it, Coop. She’s deliriously happy with her artist boyfriend who’s probably painting her naked in Paris as we speak.”
Cooper raises both hands like I’ve drawn a weapon. “Easy, Cap. Just asking. She’s pretty, is all. Smart too. But message received. She’s a no-fly zone.”
“Fucking right she is.” I laugh, even as my brain helpfully points out the hypocrisy of declaring my sister off-limits while I’ve already crossed every line with Coach’s daughter. “But if any of you assholes want pizza, I’m buying at Lorenzo’s in twenty.”
The responses cascade:
“Organic chemistry waits for no man,” Cooper groans.
“Delta Sig party,” Kellerman says. “Cheerleaders confirmed.”
“Sleep,” Schmidt mumbles. He already looks half-dead. “So much sleep.”
“Meeting some football guys,” Maine adds, releasing Rook from a headlock.
My radar pings. “Football guys? Since when do you hang out with them?”
Maine’s grin goes sharp. “Diplomatic relations, Cap. I’ve got to keep the peace.”
“You mean scope out their house for pranks.”
“That too.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Multitasking is a life skill.”
“Just don’t get arrested.” I pull my t-shirt on. “Rook?”
Rook hesitates, clearly torn between pizza and whatever fiction he’s about to spin. “Can’t tonight. Got a date.”
The locker room erupts in exaggerated disbelief, guys howling like Rook just claimed he could dunk from half court or get straight A’s. I don’t begrudge them their mockery, because Rook’s romantic life exists purely in theory, like dark matter or Maine’s study habits.
My phone buzzes. It’s Andy:
Pizza clock is ticking, nerd. Every minute you’re late = one less slice with your name on it.
I type back:
Five minutes. Don’t you dare touch my pepperoni.
I head out of the locker room and the arena, and the walk to Lorenzo’s takes me past the rink’s parking lot. My stupid brain immediately scans for Sophie’s car, even though it’s not likely to be there, and because apparently I’m a masochist who enjoys emotional self-flagellation.
She looked at you like something she stepped in.
Dating would be chaos for you and her.
Move. On.
The evening air bites with that specific October cold that promises winter’s coming whether you’re ready or not.
And, when I reach Lorenzo’s, it glows warm through its windows, all checkered tablecloths and comfortable chaos.
I spot Andy immediately, eyes locked on her phone in our usual corner booth.
And the sight makes me smile.
Because my ankle feels solid, the team’s coming together, our new coach seems an improvement, and the scouts will be watching me at the opener, and I should have a golden path to the NHL. And, just as importantly, I’ve found balance outside my hockey.
I should be on top of the world.
So why can’t I stop thinking about Sophie Pearson?
Complicated? Damn right.