Chapter 10
Pressure Cooker
Leo
The ice is loud today.
Every stride, every stop, every puck hitting the boards feels amplified — like the arena itself is trying to drown out the noise in my head.
Practice isn’t supposed to feel like punishment, but that’s what I’ve turned it into.
Harder strides. Faster shifts. No breaks.
If I can skate fast enough, maybe I can leave the static behind — the whispers, the headlines, the too-small apartment that smells like cinnamon and stress.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “Again!”
We circle back into the drill. Pass, pivot, shoot. My blade bites into the ice, slicing through the blue line. I take the shot — top right corner — and it clangs off the post instead. The sound rings out, sharp as a taunt.
Gabe skates past with a pat on my shoulder. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Just off my mark.” My lungs burn. My jaw aches from clenching too long.
“Off your mark three drills in a row.” He isn’t unkind, but he doesn’t need to be.
I glare, but he’s already gone, skating back into the rotation. He’s right, though. I know it. My body feels fine, my reflexes sharp, but something’s off — that half-second of hesitation between instinct and execution. I keep trying to push through it, and it keeps pushing back.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Voss, reset your timing!”
I nod, biting down on frustration. Reset. Like it’s that simple.
We go again. The puck slides down the ice; I chase, angle my stick for the pass — but it catches on the toe of my blade, skidding wide. Trevor Stein scoops it up, snickering. “Tough week, Captain?”
I don’t look at him. Just reset my stance. Again.
When practice finally ends, sweat slicks down my neck, my shoulders heavy with fatigue. I pull off my helmet and toss it into the bin with a little too much force. The clang echoes through the locker room.
A TV mounted in the corner replays highlights — not ours, just the daily sports coverage. But then I hear my name.
“…Leo Voss’s shooting percentage down seven points since the start of the month. Maybe the penthouse flood’s thrown him off balance. No home, no routine — hard to keep focus under that kind of pressure.”
My stomach twists. I don’t need to look, but I do anyway. The screen flashes my photo — the one from last week’s game, jaw tight, eyes shadowed under the helmet. The caption underneath reads: ‘Captain Off His Game?’
I grab a towel and drag it over my face, muffling the sound of the segment. Doesn’t matter. The words are already lodged in my head.
Out on the ice, I can skate through anything. But in here — surrounded by cameras, whispers, and half-smirks — it feels like no matter how hard I push, I’m already losing ground.
Claire corners me before I finish unlacing my skates.
“Leo.” Her voice cuts through the locker-room chatter. The guys go quiet in that subtle, practiced way — not eavesdropping exactly, but close enough to catch every word.
She folds her arms, clipboard in hand, eyes like steel under her perfect PR smile. “We need to talk about the optics.”
I groan inwardly. “Claire—”
“Don’t ‘Claire’ me.” Her tone sharpens. “You’ve seen the coverage. The flood, the move, the missed shots — it’s all feeding one narrative, and it’s not a good one. You know how this works.”
I lean back against my locker, towel draped around my neck. “I didn’t cause the damn flood.”
“No,” she says evenly, “but you can control what happens next. Answer less, not more. No color, no quotes they can spin. Smile when you have to, walk when you can. Let the story die on its own.”
“Sounds like your job.”
Her brow lifts. “It’s both our jobs if you want to keep the sponsors calm.”
That lands harder than I expect. I rub the back of my neck, muscles knotting tight. Claire isn’t cruel, just pragmatic. She’s been doing this longer than most players have been in the league. But the way she says it — keep the sponsors calm — makes me feel like a liability instead of a captain.
Trevor’s voice slices through the tension. “Maybe if you had a hotel bed instead of a couch, you’d be putting more pucks in the net.”
The room laughs — too loud, too quick. Gabe shoots him a look. “Shut it, Stein.”
Trevor smirks. “What? I’m just saying, man’s sleeping like a college kid. Hard to stay elite when you’re crashing on someone’s pull-out.”
I don’t take the bait. I just grab my stick and shove it into my bag, the thud echoing off the lockers. “You done?”
He grins. “Just getting started.”
Gabe steps between us, calm but firm. “Drop it, Trev. He’ll light it up Saturday. Then you can go back to running your mouth about someone else.”
The silence after that is tight. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the exit before anyone can say more.
Claire calls after me. “Press is waiting by the tunnel. Keep it short.”
Of course they are.
The tunnel smells like sweat, disinfectant, and the faint metallic tang of the ice. Reporters line up behind the barricade like sharks who’ve scented blood. Cameras flash as soon as I step out — the pop and click crawling under my skin.
Claire wasn’t kidding. They’re waiting.
I keep my head down, jaw tight, moving through the motions: nod, half-smile, towel slung casually over my shoulder. It’s all muscle memory now — the post-practice shuffle of controlled exposure.
Then I hear her voice.
“Leo! Anya Lopez, Surge Daily.”
Of course it’s her.
I stop because it’d look worse if I didn’t. Her recorder’s already out, red light blinking. She’s good — never misses a beat.
“How’s the adjustment been since the flood?” she asks, voice smooth and deceptively light. “You’ve been on the road a lot, but fans are wondering if the off-ice situation’s affecting your focus.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” She tilts her head. “No sleep issues? No distractions?”
I meet her gaze, cool and steady. “No.”
The lie sits heavy on my tongue, but I’m not about to feed the headline machine. I’ve seen what happens when players slip — one clipped quote becomes a week of speculation. I can already imagine the spin: Voss Cracks Under Pressure.
Anya studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she can hear the tension in my silence. “Fans will be glad to hear that.” She lowers her mic.
The second she steps back, another reporter shouts a question about Saturday’s game. I keep my answers short. Predictable. Scripted. The perfect PR clone. Safe, but hollow — like every word builds another wall between me and everyone else.
When the scrum finally disperses, Gabe claps my shoulder. “Handled it like a pro. Couldn’t even tell you wanted to punch a wall.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Guess I’m improving.”
He grins, then sobers. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I adjust the strap on my bag, eyes on the exit. “Just tired.”
He studies me a beat, then nods. “See you tomorrow.”
Once I’m alone, the weight hits. The noise of the rink fades, leaving just my pulse thudding in my ears. I can still see Anya’s face — sharp, curious, relentless — and hear her question echoing: Is it affecting your focus?
I don’t know what bothers me more — that she asked, or that she’s right.
When I’m not on the ice, my head’s somewhere else entirely. In that cramped kitchen that smells like garlic and sugar. Listening to her hum under her breath while she cooks. Watching the curve of her mouth when she tries not to smile.
I shove the thought down hard and keep walking.
Sage’s apartment smells like roasted tomatoes and simmering herbs when I walk in, the kind of smell that should be comforting but somehow isn’t. My bag digs into my shoulder, heavy with gear, and I let the door slam harder than I mean to.
She’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a loose knot. Pans clatter as she moves between the stove and counter, muttering under her breath. There’s already enough food to feed an army — containers lined up, lids stacked neatly beside them. She’s been stress-cooking again.
“Smells good.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She glances up but doesn’t smile. “Thanks.” Her tone is tight. Measured.
I watch her ladle soup into a container, the muscles in her arm flexing as she moves. She’s trying to act calm, but her jaw’s set, movements too precise. I can read tension — it’s the same look a teammate gets before a fight breaks out on the ice.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
That word again. It hits like a slap.
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. “You don’t look fine.”
Her laugh is quick and brittle. “Didn’t realize there’s a dress code for emotions.”
“Hey.” I keep my voice even. “I’m just asking.”
“Yeah, well, maybe stop assuming I need saving.”
That stops me cold. “I never said you did.”
She drops the ladle into the pot with a clatter. “You didn’t have to. The look says enough. The thank-yous. The pity.”
“Pity?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes flash. “Like I’m some charity case you feel sorry for because you’re stuck here.”
“Stuck here?” I blink. “You think that’s what this is?”
She crosses her arms, chin lifting. “Isn’t it?”
The air between us goes razor-sharp. I step closer, heat prickling under my skin. “You offered, Sage. I didn’t ask for special treatment.”
“I know.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I just—” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through. “I’m not your burden.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
The words hang there, harsh and final. For a second, neither of us breathes. The only sound is the simmering pot, bubbling over quietly like it’s listening.
I step back, heart hammering. “You know what? Fine.”
I grab my bag and toss it onto the couch with more force than necessary. The impact makes something on the coffee table rattle — maybe a remote, maybe the fragile calm we’ve been pretending to keep.
Sage turns back to the stove, shoulders stiff. “Dinner’s ready whenever you want it.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Didn’t ask.”
The bite in her voice makes my chest ache even as anger tries to take its place. I drop onto the couch, scrubbing my hands over my face, exhaustion finally catching up.
We’re silent — kitchen and living room, twenty feet apart, separated by everything we’re too proud to say.
The apartment feels too small when we’re like this. I sink deeper into the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the muted TV. The light flickers against the wall, catching the edge of my bag where it landed. My pulse is still climbing, my head too loud.
Sage clatters a lid onto a pot, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. Then nothing. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint hiss of the stove.
I try to focus on anything else — game plans, drills, tomorrow’s matchup — but it’s useless. Every thought circles back to her. The argument replays on a loop, twisting into something heavier. She thinks she’s a burden. I think I’m losing control. Maybe we’re both right.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, expecting Claire or a media alert. Instead, it’s a notification from one of the sports accounts I never should’ve followed.
A video thumbnail flashes — Grayson Locke at a press conference, smirking behind the mic.
I tap it before I can stop myself.
“Seems like some guys can’t handle adversity,” Grayson says, smug. “Guess we’ll see Saturday who’s really built for it.” The reporters laugh, and he leans back like he’s already scored the winning goal.
The clip loops. Over and over. Each repetition hits harder.
Sage steps into the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Everything okay?”
I don’t answer right away. My thumb hovers over the screen, the video frozen on Grayson’s smirk. “Yeah.” My voice comes out low. “Just noise.”
She studies me for a second, then folds the towel over the back of a chair. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I force a breath, setting the phone facedown. “I’m fine.”
The lie tastes bitter. I’m anything but fine.
She nods slowly, her expression softening just a little. “Then I’m going to bed.”
I nod back, but don’t move. I wait until her footsteps fade down the hall before I pick the phone up again. The screen lights the room, cold and blue.
Can’t handle adversity. The words dig deep, scraping against every raw edge I’ve been trying to hide.
I grip the phone tighter until my knuckles ache. There’s an ache in my chest too — familiar, unwelcome. The kind that always comes before I do something reckless.
Saturday’s coming fast. So is Grayson. And for the first time all season, I’m not sure which one I’m more ready to face.