Chapter 26
~
Dawson
The rink was empty except for us. No music. No staff lingering at the boards. Just three sets of blades carving lines into fresh ice and the echo of breath inside helmets. Practice jerseys clung damp against my shoulders, the chill working its way through the fabric and into muscle.
Good.
I dropped a pile of pucks at center ice and didn’t bother looking at Boone or Gage when I spoke.
“Neutral zone transitions,” I said. “Full speed. No coasting.”
Boone clicked his tongue. “We just finished bag skates.”
“Again,” I said, already lining myself up. “Gage, you’re driving wide. Boone, middle lane. I want quick support, tight gaps.”
Gage rolled his shoulders, visor flashing. “You’re in a mood.”
“Go.”
I took the puck, exploded forward, forced the play through center with my head up and my stick tight to my body. Boone cut across the blue line, Gage flared wide. I snapped a pass to Boone, accelerated past him, called for it back.
Boone hesitated half a beat.
The puck skipped. The timing was off.
“Reset,” I barked. “Again.”
We ran it again. And again.
Each rep I pushed harder. Longer strides. Sharper cuts. I leaned into my edges until my thighs burned and my lungs started to rasp. When Boone lagged, I surged ahead anyway. When Gage peeled off early, I finished the pattern alone, hammering a shot into the boards hard enough that it rattled.
“You’re cheating the drill,” Boone called after the third reset.
“You’re cheating the work,” I shot back.
I scooped up another puck, skated backward this time, forcing them to adjust. Defensive footwork into an immediate breakout. I pivoted at the hash marks, snapped a pass blind to Gage, then cut hard toward the net.
Gage fumbled it.
“Focus,” I said, skating past him. “Colorado doesn’t give you second chances.”
Boone coasted to a stop near the circle. “We’re not playing Colorado right now.”
“That’s the problem.”
I lined us up again without waiting for an answer. Continuous cycle drill this time. Corner battles into net-front rotation. I dumped the puck deep, chased it myself, took the hit I imagined would be there, then spun out with the puck and fed Boone low.
Boone made the shot.
I was already backchecking, forcing him to chase me, cutting off his angle, lifting his stick. I took the puck back and drove the net again.
“Jesus,” Gage muttered. “You’re gonna tear something.”
“Then move,” I said. “We’re tied with Colorado and it all comes down to the next game.”
Sweat ran down my spine. My chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. The image of Carissa flashed uninvited. Her face in my doorway. The way her voice had sounded when she said she couldn’t do this anymore. The way Henry’s cry had cut through the hall after.
I dug in harder.
We shifted to faceoff drills. I took every draw. Boone protested after the fifth straight loss.
“You’re not even letting us switch,” he said.
“Win one,” I replied.
I slammed my stick down, crouched low, focused on the puck like it was the only thing left in the world. The official wasn’t there, but I dropped it myself anyway, snapping my wrist, driving through Boone’s stick with brute force.
The puck popped loose.
Mine.
Again.
Boone shoved my shoulder as we skated past each other. “You’re being an asshole.”
“Get better,” I said, breath burning.
We moved into power-play simulations, even though it was just us. I quarterbacked from the point, barking orders, forcing crisp passes through imaginary lanes. When Gage missed the seam, I made him skate it again. When Boone took a shot from too far out, I waved it off and reset the drill.
The angrier I got, the tighter everything became. Shorter windows. Less forgiveness. I pushed the tempo until my legs started to shake on stops.
Boone bent over at the waist after one rep, hands on his knees. “Okay,” he said. “Time.”
“No,” I replied, already grabbing another puck.
Gage skated closer, voice lower. “Dawson. You’re not proving anything.”
I snapped a pass at his stick harder than necessary. “Run the drill.”
We switched to sprints. Blue line to blue line. Then goal line to far blue. Then suicides. I didn’t stop when they did. I kept going, teeth clenched, vision narrowing.
Pain was simple. Pain followed rules.
My lungs burned. My legs felt heavy, like they were filled with wet sand. Somewhere in the back of my head, a part of me knew this was stupid. That I was emptying the tank when we needed it full.
I didn’t care.
Boone caught me on the boards as I turned. He reached out, grabbing my arm through my jersey.
“That’s enough.”
I yanked free. “Get off me.”
He didn’t back down. “You’re punishing all of us.”
I skated away, circled back, grabbed another puck. My hands were shaking now. I welcomed it.
Boone followed me to center ice. “You think this fixes it?”
“Fixes what?” I snapped.
He stopped dead in front of me, forcing me to stop too. His face was flushed, eyes hard. “Her. This. You.”
I felt it then. The crack in the armor. The way my chest threatened to cave in if I let him keep talking.
“Get out of my way,” I said.
“No.” Boone planted himself. “Stop punishing all of us, including Carissa, for shit you can’t handle.”
Gage hovered a few feet away, silent but watchful.
Boone went on, voice steady now. “If you’d just talk to us, you might realize it’s not as bad as you think. None of this is.”
I laughed, short and ugly. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it,” Boone shot back.
The image of Carissa again. Her standing in my bedroom. The way I’d chosen the game because it was easier than staying. The way Henry had looked at me like I’d already left.
My throat tightened.
I shook my head once. “I’m done.”
I skated past Boone before he could say anything else. My legs protested every stride, but I didn’t slow down. I didn’t look back. I headed straight for the tunnel, the sound of my blades echoing too loud in the empty rink.
Behind me, Boone called my name.
I kept going.
The locker room was empty when I shoved the door open. The quiet hit harder than the drills had. I ripped off my helmet and dropped it onto the bench, then sat, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
My hands were still shaking.
I had no idea how to fix any of it. And for the first time in a long time, the ice hadn’t helped at all.
Gage didn’t knock. He just slid the locker room door open, quiet enough that I barely noticed until he was stepping inside, skates scraping softly as he came over.
I didn’t bother looking up. I didn’t want anyone seeing me like this.
The empty rink had left me raw, but the silence here, the echo of our blades, the smell of sweat and cleaning solution was worse. Too real.
He sat down beside me without saying anything. Close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. I could feel the warmth bleeding through his gear. I didn’t move.
“Can I talk to you without getting the shit beaten out of me?”
I gave a hollow laugh, one that bounced off the lockers and felt like it might tear me in half.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” My words sounded small and brittle even to me. I could hear the fatigue in them. Hear the way my heart refused to settle in my chest.
Gage didn’t answer right away. He waited. Let me sit there, sulking like a teenager who’d lost every reason to try. Finally, he leaned back on the bench.
“Okay,” he said, “so then you’ll just listen.”
I made no sign of agreement, but let the silence swallow me. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want anyone to tell me I wasn’t handling it right. I didn’t want anyone reminding me that I’d fucked up everything I actually cared about.
But he kept going.
“I get it,” he said. “I get what you’re feeling. I know how it eats at you, how you keep driving yourself, pushing, punishing, because you think that’s the only way you can fix it.”
I shifted a little, uncomfortable. Gage didn’t flinch. He just watched me, steady, like he expected this to be hard for me but didn’t care.
“You can’t keep hiding behind the game forever,” he said. “You can’t bury yourself in drills and practices and wins and losses and think it makes anything okay. Because if you do, you’re gonna end up losing everything anyway. Carissa. Boone. Me. Yourself.”
I swallowed. The words hit differently than I expected. Gage didn’t say them with sarcasm or anger. He didn’t threaten or lecture. Just stated facts. Clear, blunt, hard. Like ice cracking under a skate.
And I hated how much it made me feel.
“To love,” he went on, softer this time, “you have to be there. You can’t just sit back and watch from a distance. You have to be there to let someone love you back. You… you can’t skip that part. No drill, no workout, no goddamn cup makes it easier.”
I turned my head slightly. Just enough to look at him out of the corner of my eye.
The way he’d said it… the way he’d framed it…
I felt the punch in my chest. Felt it settle in my throat.
Carissa. The morning after the game. The look on Henry’s face.
The ache I hadn’t let myself own. The way I’d told myself walking away was easier.
All of it just stacked up and landed here.
On this bench. With Gage, quietly pointing out what I’d known all along but refused to admit.
“I…” I started. My voice cracked before I could finish. I couldn’t get the words out.
Gage didn’t push. Just nodded. Let me stumble over myself. Let me sit there while the weight of everything I’d been dodging pressed against my ribs.
Finally, he leaned back, exhaling through his nose, and said, “You need to stop punishing yourself, Dawson. You’re not doing anyone any favors by disappearing.”
I shook my head slowly. He was right. But hearing it made it harder to breathe. Hearing it made it worse because now I had no defense. No excuse. No way to shield myself from the truth I’d been ignoring.
“Where’s Boone?” I asked, my throat still tight.
Gage snorted, one side of his mouth tugging up. “I told him to wait outside.”
“Why?”
“I knew having him here would just piss you off. Thought I’d save us both the trouble.”
I let out a low laugh, the first real sound I’d made since leaving the ice. “Good call.”
We both laughed quietly, and I could feel the tension drain just a little.
Gage smiled at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “See? Sometimes talking helps.”
I wanted to punch something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. But all I did was release a slow exhale. He’d just taken the corner off my armor without even touching me. It sucked how well that worked.
Eventually, he stood, sparing me a slap on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, man. Just don’t wait too long.”
I watched him walk out, heard the locker door click behind him. Silence came back, heavier this time. Immense. Crushing.
And I was left alone.
The emptiness pressed into me. The stink of sweat and ice and equipment and despair. My heart pounded in my chest as if it wanted to explode, and my head spun with every possibility I hadn’t considered. Carissa. Boone. Gage. The playoffs. My mistakes. Everything.
I could still feel Gage’s shoulder where it had brushed mine, steady, unshakable, a reminder that someone out there was willing to see the mess I was in.
And I hated myself for needing it. Hated myself for feeling it.
Hated myself for realizing how much I’d let the distance between me and Carissa fester while hiding behind a routine I’d built like armor.
I thought of Boone waiting outside, pacing, probably frustrated, probably ready to charge in and fix it in his own reckless way.
I thought of Gage, trying to help without being overbearing, trying to give me a path out of the spiral I’d chosen.
And I thought of Carissa, probably at home, probably wondering if I’d ever figure it out, if I’d ever let her see the side of me that wasn’t just a captain or a teammate or a perfectionist.
I didn’t know how to fix any of it. Didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know if talking would help or ruin everything further. Didn’t even know if I deserved to be fixed.
The locker room felt colder than it had five minutes ago.
The benches pressed into my legs. My skates dug into the tile.
The smell of sweat lingered, sharp, metallic.
And I was trapped in the middle of it, trapped in my own mind, trapped in the consequences of every choice I’d made and every word I hadn’t said.
I wanted to go back to the ice. Wanted to push myself until my body forgot my heart and my brain stopped spinning.
But even that didn’t feel like enough anymore.
Even that wouldn’t erase the way I’d let things slip between Carissa and me.
Even that wouldn’t stop the fear that everything I’d worked for this season could unravel because I couldn’t be honest.
I sat there, fists pressed against my knees, and let the quiet swallow me.
The echo of the rink, the laughter with Gage, the absence of Boone; all of it pressed together.
And I realized that if I didn’t get my head straight before the final game, everything—the cup, the wins, the people I cared about—would slip right through my fingers.
And I had no idea where to start.