CHAPTER 12
Grizz
I’m in the hallway that runs along the basement perimeter of the arena, doing what I always do on game days… trying to outrun my own brain.
Country music pours into my ears. The stuff I grew up on—small-town tunes by Chesney and McGraw, the same order every time.
I’m in my warm-up sweats, kicking a soccer ball against the wall, letting it rebound at just the right angle.
I juggle it with my feet, keeping it airborne for as long as possible.
Right foot. Left. Knee. Shoulder. Back to the right.
The repetition keeps me focused, and once I get locked in, I can slip into a trance that becomes meditative.
The touch, redirect, control, repeat. Junior hockey habits that stuck with me longer than anything else in my life, my routine before every game.
The mental preparation is as important as the physical.
But today my focus is shit. Every touch is too hard. Every rebound is off by an inch. I stop the ball under my foot, chest rising and falling, and I already know why I can’t get into my rhythm.
Daisy.
Last night plays in an endless loop in my mind. Her legs wrapped around me. Her voice saying no before screaming my name. The way she looked right after—kiss-swollen mouth, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.
And I hate myself for replaying it.
No. That’s not even true. I like replaying it. Too much. That’s the part that scares the hell out of me.
Daisy’s so different from any other woman I’ve been with. Different in all the ways that matter. Different in ways that are both amazing and a fucking nightmare. She doesn’t put up with my shit, doesn’t shrink, doesn’t look at me as though the entire world hinges on my mood.
She stands up to me. And I don’t like that… except I kind of do.
The ball skitters off toward the trainers’ room and I swear under my breath as I trot after it.
This is what happens when I let someone get into my head and let myself get too close to a reality I can’t control. Sex is supposed to be simple: release, forget, move on. Last night wasn’t that.
And now she’s everywhere in my thoughts, in places I don’t want her.
The way she kissed me like she wanted to win the kiss. The way she touched me like she was trying to memorize a body she wasn’t allowed to keep. The way she looked at me afterward, trying so hard to make it seem like it didn’t mean anything.
It meant something. Or maybe it didn’t. I can’t figure it out.
I bend down, scoop up the soccer ball, and take a slow breath, letting the country music fade into the next track. Chris Stapleton now—gritty voice, emotional lyrics. Not exactly helping.
I should text her. Or avoid her entirely and pretend last night never happened.
But none of those options feel clean.
“Yo, Grizz!”
Tanner pops around the corner, grinning. “Jesus, been calling your name like twenty times. You coming? Power play meeting in ten.” His grin widens when he gets a good look at me. “Damn. You look like shit. You sleep okay?”
“I slept fine,” I lie.
“Hmm.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Does this have anything to do with our favorite PR princess?”
I spin the ball on my finger. “Don’t start.”
He smirks, knowing exactly what that means. “So something did happen.”
“Nothing happened.”
He whistles low. “Liar.”
I meet his eyes, dead serious. “Cut the shit, Tanner.”
He blinks in surprise, hands up. “All right. Damn. Sensitive subject. Didn’t know you were already in your feels.”
I walk past him before he can see the truth on my face because he’s not wrong. Not about the feels, not exactly, but about the fact that something’s different today.
Daisy Turner is the reason for it.
And I can’t decide if I want to run straight through it or run like hell the other way.
As we head toward the dressing room, I crank the volume on my music until the bass rattles through my ribs. Country fades into rap right as we reach the doors—my signal, my gear shift, the moment I flip from human to weapon. But today, the switch sticks halfway, jammed.
The power play meeting drones on, the same spiel from the coaches as usual. Makes me wonder if they ever put thought into these or if they use it as a way to make sure we’re all dialed in for the game. Once it’s over, I gear up with the rest of the team and before I know it, it’s game time.
I’m usually gone the second the puck drops.
Physically, I’m on the ice. I’m skating and moving, but mentally? I disappear into that vortex where nothing exists except angles and instincts and the next play. It’s the closest thing I have to a religion, the only place where everything makes sense.
But tonight, I can’t get there.
Every shift feels a little off. Every time my skates dig into the ice, every time the puck touches my stick, every time I’m supposed to feel that surge of instinctive certainty… I feel something else. Or someone else.
Fucking Daisy.
It’s like she’s sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, distracting the parts of me that are usually bulletproof. And it’s starting to irritate me, because if there’s one place I can’t afford to be diverted, it’s on the ice in the middle of a game.
I chase down a loose puck along the boards and get shouldered by one of their defensemen, but instead of letting that spike my adrenaline, all I hear is Daisy’s voice. I hear her laugh, feel her breath against my mouth.
The whole period I’m consumed by this.
I’m half a second late on reads. And in hockey, a half second late is death. I’m a stride off in the neutral zone. I keep overthinking simple plays.
Between whistles, I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off. I tug at my jersey. I try to get mean, to get pissed.
But nothing sticks.
Midway through the second, we’re battling in the Cougars’ zone, puck bouncing around. There’s a scramble in front of the net—bodies crashing, sticks swinging, chaos in motion. I fight my way through it, fire a shot that rings off the post, and just as I’m bracing for the rebound—
Boom.
A Cougars defenseman plows into me and cross-checks me square in the chest. Hard.
It knocks the wind out of me and I stumble back, vision blinking in and out for a split second.
And then everything goes still.
I look up at him.
He’s smirking, a toothless grin, looking down at me. He expects a reaction. He wants one badly. Like every other guy in this league who’s figured out you can goad me into a penalty if you push the right buttons.
And normally he’d be right.
Normally I’d swing, shove, grab, drop my gloves and make him regret even thinking about touching me.
Normally I’d bury him, but this time… I just stare at him.
My fists stay at my sides. No swing, no shove—only a stare that feels foreign even to me.
His smirk falters and confusion cracks through it. He expected fire and got nothing but silence. My heartbeat is steady, not the usual war drums, and I keep waiting for the indignant rage to take over.
It never comes.
The ref skates in, whistles shrieking. “Cut the shit, you two!” But there’s nothing happening. Even the ref is awestruck I haven’t started swinging at the guy.
The Cougars defenseman backs away, still watching me like he’s waiting for the punch line. I don’t do a thing, just stare at him, and the only thing running through my head isn’t revenge or rage or the next play.
It’s the way Daisy looked last night when I kissed her senseless and I’m fucking furious with myself that I’ve let this woman get under my skin and into my head this way.
Tanner skates up beside me, eyes wide behind his visor. “What the hell was that?”
I don’t offer an answer because I don’t have one, turning my back on my line mate and heading toward the bench. The ref drops the puck and play resumes. The game marches on without me, and I sit with the realization of knowing that I’m not into it.
It never gets better and I never regain my footing. Everything is off and by the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m ready for this entire day to be over.
We lose 3–1, and everyone knows I wasn’t myself out there. No one says it, but I see it in the side glances as we sit in the locker room together, the way Coach slammed his clipboard so hard the plastic cracked.
I sit in front of my stall, peeling off my gear piece by piece. First jersey, then tape, then pads.
I grab my phone from my bag and see I missed a call from my sister before the game along with a single text from her. Call me. It’s important.
My stomach knots and a cold dread settles in my chest. She wouldn’t tell me it’s important if it weren’t, and I should call her back right away, but honestly…
I’m scared of what might come next. I hit the shower first and make it a fast one, nothing like the usual slow burn after a game.
Water scalds my skin but my head’s elsewhere, already spiraling, already imagining worst-case scenarios.
By the time I’m dressed in my jeans, hoodie, and damp hair shoved under a cap, I’m moving fast past reporters, trainers, and the rookies tossing towels at each other to fill the silence.
I slip out the back hallway, the one only players use. It’s narrow and dim, a service route built for privacy, not comfort. There’s a small side room near the exit… tiny, with a single bench and bare walls. I duck inside and shut the door.
I hit call, and Eliza answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Grizz,” she says. She doesn’t sound normal.
“What happened?” My throat is already too dry.
She exhales shakily. “Dad had another episode.”
I sit on the bench, and the small room feels even smaller. My lungs do that thing with the stuttered breath I never let anyone see.
“When?” I manage.
“This morning. Around ten.” Her voice wavers. “He left the house. Just… walked right out the front door. No coat, nothing, and it was snowing.”
I close my eyes. I can picture it—the quiet street, the wind howling through open fields, the cold biting deep. Saskatchewan winters aren’t built for mistakes.
“They found him near the Co-op,” she continues. “A cop spotted him wandering near the intersection. He was confused and kept saying he was on his way to your peewee game.”