Chapter 24
Gio
The air inside the rink tastes like copper and sweat. It's the last week of the regular season, and Coach is running us into the fucking ground. Whistles blast, sharp and punishing, cutting through the sound of skates tearing up ice.
"Again! Lines, get back!" Coach screams from the bench.
I drag myself over the boards, my lungs burning like I've inhaled glass.
This is it. The Frozen Four is the finish line, and for the seniors—Adrian, Declan, Dante, Cole—it's the last ride.
No second chances. No next year. The weight of it sits heavy in my chest, a crushing debt I haven't paid off yet.
I take my position, stick on the ice, knees bent.
My body knows the drill. The muscles know the angles.
But my head is somewhere else. It's scanning the high seats of the arena, checking the exits, tracking the shadows.
I'm counting the security guards at the doors.
I'm looking for threats that don't have anything to do with hockey.
"Gio! Heads up!" The shout comes too late.
I see the puck out of the corner of my eye, a black blur against the white, but my reaction time is lagged.
My brain is still assessing the perimeter of the building instead of the zone.
I'm physically here, but I'm mentally ghosting.
My legs feel like lead. I haven't slept in two days.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that fucking blog post. I see Zoe's face when she read it.
The hyper-vigilance is a constant hum under my skin, a static that won't shut off.
It's making me sloppy. It's making me slow.
"Move your feet, Rossi! You're skating like you're on a fucking coffee break!
" Adrian yells, skating past me. I grit my teeth and push off, forcing my body into the stride.
I need to be here. My focus needs to be locked in.
But the silence of the empty stands feels like a loaded gun waiting to go off.
During the scrimmage, the blur of navy and silver takes over, a rhythm I've known since I was a kid.
Skate, pass, shoot. It's muscle memory. It should be automatic.
Adrian has the puck, cutting across the blue line.
I know the play before he makes it. I'm breaking for the slot, my stick tapping the ice, the signal for the pass.
But my eyes flick up. A flicker of movement in section 112.
Dark jacket. Flash of something that doesn't belong.
It's nothing. It's probably nothing. But my brain doesn't process "probably. " It processes "threat."
On the play, the pass is perfect. It's right on my tape, exactly where it should be.
A second too late. My eyes don't see it leave Adrian's stick.
The connection doesn't register. I just hear the solid, sickening thud of a body hitting mine from the side.
Dante. He's not a small guy. My skates leave the ice, and for a second, I'm airborne.
Then I slam into the boards, the impact rattling my teeth and stealing the air from my lungs.
In the aftermath, the world goes silent.
The bad kind. A kind where every single person on the ice stops moving and just looks.
That scrape of skates stops. The shouting stops.
All I can hear is the ringing in my ears and the frantic thump of my own heart.
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through my gut.
That miss costs me the pass. Then I got drilled by my own fucking teammate because I was looking at the goddamn stands.
My body pushes itself up, my shoulder screaming in protest. I keep my gaze off Dante.
I don't look at Adrian. I stare at the white ice in front of me, my breath fogging in the cold air.
The crack in my armor isn't just visible; it's a fucking chasm.
Everyone saw it. They all know I'm a liability right now.
I'm the weak link. And in this game, the weak link gets you eliminated.
Skates carve the ice, sharp and aggressive, cutting through the ringing in my ears.
I don't look up. I know who's coming by the cadence of the stride.
Heavy, deliberate, pissed off. Adrian stops in a spray of ice shavings, blocking my view of the net.
He doesn't offer a hand. He just looms over me, his chest heaving, the 'C' on his jersey staring me down like a judgment.
"You're playing like you've got eyes in the back of your head, Rossi," he snaps, his voice low and vicious. "And none of them are on the fucking puck."
I tighten my grip on my stick, the wood digging into my glove. "I got hit. It happens."
"Not like that," Dante growls, circling behind me. He's not apologizing. He's making a point. "You were standing still, Gio. You just froze."
A sharp crack echoes through the rink. Clang.
I flinch, looking past Adrian to the net.
Declan is standing in the crease, his stick raised.
The stick slams against the iron post again, the sound like a gunshot in the silence.
Clang. Not a single word comes from him.
No explanation is needed. The frustration is radiating off him in waves.
That frustration comes from stopping pucks he shouldn't have to see because the defense is ghosting.
Guilt, hot and acidic, burns a hole in my stomach. These guys don't ask for excuses. They don't demand explanations. What they do is show up. Blood gets spilled for this team. And I'm out here scanning the crowd for ghosts while they're trying to lock down a playoff spot.
"Get your head out of your ass," Adrian says, leaning in.
"Whatever the fuck is going on off the ice?
Leave it in the locker room. You're dragging us down with you.
" He turns away, sharp and dismissive, skating back toward center ice.
The fracture isn't just in my armor anymore.
It's in the room. The unity is splintering, and I'm the one holding the hammer.
The locker room is a graveyard of silence.
Usually, after a bag skate like that, the air would be thick with steam and curses.
Guys would be slamming stalls, bitching about the conditioning, laughing off the hits.
Today, nobody says a fucking word. The only sound is the rhythmic thud of tape hitting the floor and the hiss of the showers.
I strip my gear slowly, peeling off the wet layers like dead skin.
My shoulder is throbbing, a dull, persistent ache that matches the rhythm in my skull.
I'm actively avoiding eye contact, turning my back to the room as I unbuckle my chest pads.
The hiss of the showers is a wall of noise I can hide behind, but it's not enough.
"...so I told her, if you can't handle the beer pong, you can't handle this," Dante's voice booms from the shower stalls, followed by Cole's low laugh. "You heading to The Tap tonight?"
"Nah, gotta study," Cole calls back. "But you guys should go. Blow off some steam."
Their casual normalcy is a physical blow.
They're talking about beer pong and bars.
They live in a world where the biggest problem is a midterm or which shitty dive bar has the cheapest wings.
I'm living in a world where every shadow is a threat and every stranger is a potential witness to my downfall.
The chasm between us feels miles wide. I'm not just a teammate who had a bad practice. I'm an alien species.
I keep my head down, focusing on the intricate task of unwinding the tape from my socks.
The rip of the tape is the only sound I allow myself to hear.
When I'm finally down to my compression shorts, I grab my towel and head for the last empty shower stall.
I stand under the scalding water, letting it beat against my aching shoulder, trying to wash away the judgment I can feel even when I can't see it.
I'm the last one out. Lately, I'm always the last one out. It's easier to face the empty room than the knowing looks in their eyes. I grab my bag and head for the side exit, cutting through the equipment hallway to avoid the main lobby.
No such luck.
"Rossi. My office." The voice cuts through the damp air, sharp and commanding. I freeze, my hand on the door handle. Coach Addison. He's standing in the doorway of his office, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes aren't on the stats on his tablet. They're locked on me.
"Yes, Coach." I drop my bag at my feet.
Walking in, the smell of stale coffee and old leather hits me. Coach closes the door, sealing us in. There's no yelling. No clipboard gets thrown. That would be easier. He just walks around behind his desk and sits down, gesturing to the chair in front of him. "Sit."
I sit. My back stays straight, my eyes forward. No fidgeting. A long time ago, I learned that showing weakness to authority just gives them a roadmap for where to hurt you.
"I saw the lapse," he says, his voice flat. "Adrian saw it. Dante saw it. The whole damn arena saw it."
"It won't happen again."
"It already happened, Gio." He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, pinning me with a stare that sees way too much. "You're missing plays. You're scanning the crowd instead of the zone. You're playing scared."
Fear, cold and jagged, scrapes at my throat. This is the only thing I can control. The game. The ice. The rules are simple here. Skate fast, hit hard, don't fuck up. If they take this away, if they bench me, I'm just a guy with a record and a target on his back.
"I'm handling it," I say, the words tight.
"Are you?" Coach steeples his fingers. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're drowning."
Her name doesn't get said. The blog post doesn't come up. That much is clear. Everyone in this room knows. He's been coaching this level long enough to spot a distraction from a mile away.