Chapter 1 #2
At some point, isolation became easier. People stopped knowing what to say to me after the accident.
Then I stopped giving them opportunities to try. The result is this strange middle ground where everyone is polite, but nobody is particularly close to me.
I work here. That's how it feels. Not like a family. Not like a team. Just work.
“Jesus Christ.” The voice comes from my left.
I glance over.
Hale is staring at the can in my hand with visible disgust. “You know those things probably cause cancer, right?”
I look down at the bright green energy drink.
Honestly, he's probably right.
The liquid inside glows with a suspicious level of enthusiasm.
“If they do,” I say, cracking it open, “it'll save me from having to drink a second one.”
A few players laugh.
I manage a smile. It feels rusty. The conversation moves on without me a few seconds later.
Nobody notices.
I take a long drink and let the caffeine burn its way down my throat. The truth is that I don't know how to be part of this anymore. Before William died, hockey was my favorite place in the world.
The rink was the one place where everything made sense.
You worked hard.
You played hard.
You won or you lost.
Simple.
Now hockey feels like something I endure. The game itself still makes sense.
Everything around it doesn't. And the cruelest part is that I can't imagine doing anything else.
During my suspension, I tried. God, I tried. I took online classes. I looked at business programs. I briefly considered coaching youth hockey. Nothing stuck. Every path eventually led back to the same realization. Hockey is the only thing I've ever been exceptional at.
Unfortunately, it's also the thing that ruined my life.
The locker room grows louder as more players arrive.
I glance toward the far side of the room and immediately regret it. Not because of anything bad.
Actually, the opposite. Ashford Grant is taking off his shirt. I should look away. Instead, I stare for approximately three seconds longer than is socially acceptable.
I may be suicidal, but I'm not dead. There are very few pleasures left in my life. Occasionally, catching a glimpse of Ashford Grant without a shirt on is one of them. I refuse to apologize.
In my defense, Ash is very difficult to ignore.
The man is enormous. At six-foot-five and built like somebody carved a defenseman out of granite, he has a habit of making professional athletes look undersized. Which is impressive considering most of us are already large human beings. Large muscles, tanned skin, and that hair.
His long black hair is still damp from the shower. It hangs past his jaw today instead of being tied back, and somehow that makes him look even more intimidating. Or attractive.
Unfortunately, both things can be true.
Ash plays defense. The position suits him perfectly. His entire job is basically preventing people from causing problems through strategic violence. He's very good at it.
His gaze lifts directly to mine.
Shit.
The corner of his mouth curls upward immediately. “Morning, Hayes.”
My face grows warm.
Fantastic.
I am twenty-five years old and apparently still capable of blushing like a teenage girl. “Good morning.”
Ash's smirk widens, his hazel eyes shimmering with something I can't read. Then he turns back toward his stall.
The interaction lasts less than ten seconds. It still manages to derail my entire train of thought.
I stare at my energy drink.
Practice starts twenty minutes later. Thankfully, hockey remains hockey. The game doesn't care whether you slept three hours or eight. The game only asks whether you can perform.
That part, at least, I still understand.
I throw myself into drills. Passing. Shooting. Conditioning. Anything that keeps my brain occupied.
Coach spends most of the morning screaming at people. Some things never change.
Halfway through practice, one of the younger forwards misses a defensive assignment and gets absolutely destroyed by the coaching staff. The mistake wasn't even particularly terrible.
Unfortunately, timing matters.
The kid skates away looking like he'd rather be hit by a bus. A few minutes later, Coach watches me thread a difficult pass through traffic.
“That's how it's done,” he shouts. “Take notes.” His eyes point at the kid. Davis, I think, is his name.
The compliment lands awkwardly.
Sure enough, somebody mutters from the back of the line. “Yeah, because Hacker Hayes can apparently do no wrong.”
The words aren't loud. They don't need to be.
I keep my eyes on the ice. The easiest way to survive comments like that is pretending they don't exist.
Before I can move on, another voice cuts through the rink. “Shut the fuck up.”
The entire line goes quiet.
I look up.
Ashford is staring at the Davis with an expression that could strip paint off a wall. The difference in size between them is honestly ridiculous.
“Excuse me?” the player asks.
“You heard me.” Ash pushes off his stick. “Don't disrespect your teammates.”
Davis bites his cheek and immediately looks away.
Smart decision.
Ash isn't technically the captain. Nobody seems interested in telling him that. A few uncomfortable seconds pass before practice resumes. The moment is over almost immediately.
Everybody moves on.
As the line shifts forward, I skate past Ash.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
His eyes flick toward mine. For a second, I think he might make a joke.
Instead, his expression softens almost imperceptibly. “No problem.”
Then he pushes off and joins the next drill. The conversation lasts less than five seconds. Still, as practice continues, I find myself thinking about it.
About him. About the fact that somebody stood up for me without being asked.
It's a strange feeling. One I haven't experienced in a very long time.
And for reasons I don't entirely understand, it follows me for the rest of the morning.