Chapter 3
Three
Brody
Present Day
Six months ago, I was a top-five defenseman in the league. Now I’m getting burned by rookies who probably spend more time scrolling TikTok than on the ice.
Six months ago, I met Chloe Dawson in Barcelona.
Six months ago, I left her standing under the twinkling lights without an explanation.
And here’s what I know about regret: It’s the one thing you can’t block, can’t check into the boards, can’t shake off, no matter how many laps you skate. It follows you. Stays with you. Whispers in your ear during the third period when you’re already exhausted and the game’s slipping away.
You left her standing there.
You ran.
Coward.
The practice facility is smaller than our usual digs, more utilitarian—one rink, wooden stands that seat maybe a few hundred, Blue Ox banners hanging from the rafters.
We’re here because they’re updating our main arena.
Renovations, new sound system, upgraded locker rooms—all the things that make the front office feel like they’re investing in the future.
It’s better than driving up to Maple Lake, where the minor league plays, and there’s something almost nostalgic about it.
This is the kind of rink where we all started—before the NHL contracts and endorsement deals, when hockey was still just a game.
The Zamboni just finished its rounds, and the ice is perfect. Freshly layered, smooth as glass, reflecting the industrial lights overhead. Smells like rubber and exhaust and that crisp scent of possibility.
Used to be, practice felt like home.
Now it feels like an audition I’m failing in slow motion.
The ice burns my lungs with every breath, but that’s not what’s killing me. It’s the silence. The space my teammates leave around me in drills—like I’m contagious, like whatever’s rotting inside me might spread.
Some might call it a slump.
Coach Jacobsen, Blue Ox’s head coach, blows his whistle—sharp, cutting through the sound of skates and pucks and the low hum of conversation. “Two on one! Blake, Munson—you’re up. Kane, you’re defending.”
Of course I am.
Justin “Blade” Blake is twenty-two and built like he runs on Red Bull and pure confidence. Kid’s got speed I remember having once—before I started to overthink my every move. His blond hair is too long, sticking out from under his helmet, and he’s grinning like this is the best part of his day.
Derek Munson glides up beside him—six feet of lean muscle and overpriced hair product.
Even in practice gear, he looks camera-ready.
Helmet gleaming, brand-new gloves (who gets new gloves mid-season?), custom skates that probably cost more than my first car—maybe even more than my current car.
He skids to a stop, ice spraying across my skates, and smirks.
“Try to keep up, old man.”
I’m twenty-eight.
But in hockey years? I might as well be collecting social security.
They take off. Blake has the puck, Derek skating stride for stride with him, their movements synchronized like they’ve been running this play for years instead of weeks. I backpedal, trying to read their eyes, their shoulders, the angle of Blake’s stick.
My game is off—weight distribution wrong, stick position too high—and I know it even as I’m setting up. My legs feel heavy, reaction time lagging like I’m moving through water.
Blake fakes left.
I bite.
Stupid!
Blake cuts right with that cocky rookie speed, and my skates tangle like I’m back in Peewees, learning to stop. He’s past me before I can recover, puck sliding clean toward Wyatt Marshall in goal.
Wyatt—thirty-one, father of one, goalie with reflexes like a cat and a wife who could hack the Pentagon before breakfast—makes the save. Barely. The puck catches his glove, and he cradles it, then looks at me over his mask.
His brown eyes are concerned. Worried.
Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m a mess.
The coach’s whistle shrieks across the rink, echoing off the boards and wooden stands.
That’s the third time this practice.
Good.
Great.
Fantastic.
I skate to the boards, grip my stick too tight. The tape on my blade is starting to fray—I should’ve retaped last night, but I was too busy staring at my ceiling and not sleeping—and my knuckles go white against the shaft.
Around me, the rest of the team keeps moving.
Tyler “Torch” Anderson—stocky, redheaded, freckled, the kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back and then give you a hard time about looking better in it than he did—is running drills with Kalen Boomer. They’re laughing about something. Probably me.
Derek glides past backward. “Nice one, Candy. Maybe try smiling at the puck next time. Might slow it down.”
I wrench my jaw shut. Because if I open my mouth right now, I might say something that ends up on SportsCenter, and Rick will have my head.
“What’s wrong?” Derek adds, loud enough for everyone in a ten-foot radius to hear. “Losing your sweetness?”
Someone snickers. I don’t look to see who.
Tyler skates closer, bumping Derek with his shoulder as he passes. “Ignore him, man. It’s not worth it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s hasn’t spent the last six months as the team joke.
Coach skates over. Doesn’t yell—never does.
He played enforcer for fifteen years, still built like a tank.
Despite his salt-and-pepper hair and a nose that’s been broken so many times it sits crooked on his face, the man knows how to make silence hurt more than shouting ever could.
He stops in front of me, arms crossed over his Blue Ox windbreaker, studying me like I’m a play he can’t figure out.
“Kane.” He jerks his head toward the bench. “A word.”
Here we go.
I follow him off the ice, skates heavy on the rubber mats. The fluorescent lights above are too bright, bouncing off every surface—ice, boards, glass—making my head pound.
Coach leans against the boards. Doesn’t sit, just waits until I’m looking at him.
“Your head’s not in the game.”
It’s not a question.
“I’m fine, Coach.” The words come out automatic. Smooth. The same tone I use with reporters when they ask about contract negotiations or trade rumors. I’m just focused on the team. Taking it one game at a time. You know how it is.
“Save the media training for the press conference.” His voice is flat. “I need my top defenseman sharp. Focused. Whatever’s going on off the ice, figure it out. Or you’re riding the bench next game.”
My jaw tightens. I can’t afford to be watching from the sidelines while Blake and Derek and every other hungry kid on the roster prove they can do my job better than I can. Can’t afford for the front office to start asking questions about my contract renewal.
As far as what’s going on off the ice…If I knew how to shake it off, I would have done it months ago. But I can’t tell him that.
“Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” He pauses, and something almost like sympathy crosses his face. The same look he gave Conrad Kingston a year ago when Con was spiraling. “You’re better than this, Kane.”
My pulse thickens. I used to be.
Coach steps back onto the ice. “Pull it together.” Skates away, leaving me behind. Just me, the bench, and those words that sound an awful lot like my next headline.
Used to be.
My gear hits the floor of my stall with more force than necessary as I peel each piece away.
Helmet, gloves, shoulder pads, elbow pads, shin guards.
My jersey is soaked through—dark blue with white trim, number seven on the back, KANE spelled out in block letters that feel like they’re getting heavier every game.
Around me, the team is in various states of undress and chaos. Steam from the showers turns everything humid and soggy, and someone is playing one of those trendy pop-music songs, just loud enough to be annoying.
Tyler’s arguing with Kalen about one of the practice plays.
Wyatt’s sitting on the bench, unlacing his skates. His goalie pads are stacked neatly beside him—white, barely scuffed, because his glove side is legendary. Mine look like they’ve been through a war.
Derek’s holding court near the showers, talking about wedding plans. “Maya’s going crazy over Valentine’s Day details. Florist, photographer, cake tasting—it’s nonstop. But she’s happy, so…” He shrugs like he’s doing everyone a favor by getting married.
Someone mutters, “Valentine’s wedding? Bold choice, man.”
Derek grins. “What my baby wants, my baby gets.”
My stall is in the corner. Away from the main cluster. Used to be a choice—I liked the space, the quiet, the ability to get in and out without getting pulled into every conversation. Now it just feels like isolation.
The nameplate above my stall gleams under the fluorescent lights: KANE #7.
And below it, engraved in smaller letters, is “CANDY.”
I learned a long time ago to brush it off.
Ignore the grating in my mind every time I hear the name.
I didn’t hate it so much at first. The first time I heard the nickname plastered on some sports headline—Brody “Candy” Kane, Sweet-Talking His Way Through Post-Game Interviews and Melting Hearts Across the Twin Cities—it was funny.
But then the name stuck, worked its way into the locker room and onto the ice.
Now, the nickname feels like a game I’m playing. And given my most recent tabloid splash, I’m losing.
Tyler comes over, hands up like he’s approaching a wounded animal. He’s already out of most of his gear, wearing compression shorts and a Blue Ox hoodie, his red hair sticking up in seventeen directions. “Hey, man. That drill was rough, but we all have off days.”
I don’t look up. Just keep unlacing my skates. “I’m fine.”