Page 39 of Checks & Bonds

"You mean lucky. You wanted your wife."

"She didn't always want me." He flicked the butt to the floor.

"Yeah, well, I doubt I'm ever going to want Freya, and there's no way in hell she'd ever want me." I moved towards the locker room door, feeling Liam's gaze follow me.

Inside, the familiar smell of sweat and ice filled the air. I began changing into my gear as more of the team trickled in, their chatter filling the space.

I tuned them out and focused on lacing up my skates, tightening each lace with precision. My thoughts drifted back to Freya and our argument after the ceremony. Her eyes had been blazing with anger and defiance. It wouldn't be easy, but it was necessary.

I thought about how she felt under my touch, her body warm and yielding. My fingers knew exactly where to press, how to draw those sweet sounds from her. Her core had been so wet, so pious, as if she were built to respond to me and only me. It was like playing an instrument I’d known all my life.

The thought of taking her twisted something deep inside me. What would it feel like to truly claim her, to have her in every sense of the word? To make her submit completely? The idea sent a shiver down my spine, a dangerous mix of desire and frustration.

But I banished the thought away, shaking my head as if that could rid me of the images. It didn’t matter what she felt like, what she tasted like. She was a pain in my ass, and that wasn’t going to change.

Keaton plopped down next to me on the bench, interrupting my thoughts, already half-dressed for practice. "Hey, Wolfe, you have another cigarette? And no bullshit. I can smell the smoke on you."

"Fuck off," Wolfe muttered from the floor, strapping on his gear. He didn't even look up.

I couldn't help but smirk. "Always a charmer, Wolfe."

He grunted in response, and I turned back to my own equipment. I finished tugging on my pads, the familiar weight grounding me. My helmet came next, the cold plastic pressing against my forehead as I snapped it into place. I grabbed my stick, its worn handle fitting perfectly into my gloved hand.

Stepping out of the locker room, the transition from warm air to the biting chill of the rink was instant. The ice stretched out before me, an expanse of white that held all the promise of speed and control. The sounds of blades scraping against ice and pucks clattering against boards filled the arena.

I stepped onto the ice, feeling the smooth surface under my skates. I pushed off with one foot, gliding effortlessly forward. The cold air bit at my exposed skin as I picked up speed, circling the rink in long, powerful strides.

The puck felt solid and responsive against my stick as I began my warm-up routine. Stickhandling drills came first, weaving the puck back and forth between cones set up by the coaching staff. Each movement was precise and controlled, muscle memory guiding me.

Next were sprints. I dug into the ice with each stride, feeling the burn in my thighs as I pushed myself faster and faster down the length of the rink. My breath came in steady puffs, visible in the frigid air.

After a few laps, I paused at center ice to catch my breath. Around me, teammates were doing their own drills or chatting idly with each other. The camaraderie was palpable, even amidst our individual routines.

Taking a moment to focus, I practiced shots on goal. The satisfying thunk of puck hitting net resonated each time I scored. My hands knew exactly where to aim and how hard to hit.

As I settled into a rhythm, everything else faded away—Freya's defiance, Wolfe's questions—all that mattered was the game ahead.

Practice was intense, just the way I liked it. I pushed myself harder, faster, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of the game. Each drill demanded focus. Each movement required precision. My body responded to the commands, a well-oiled machine honed over years of dedication.

Coach Morgan’s whistle cut through the air, signaling a change in drills. We shifted into passing exercises. Keaton and I worked in sync, our sticks moving fluidly as we sent the puck back and forth across the ice. His eyes met mine, a silent understanding passing between us. We didn’t need words; our chemistry spoke for itself.

The puck glided smoothly along the ice as I passed it to Keaton. He received it effortlessly and sent it back my way with a flick of his wrist. The repetition was comforting, grounding me in the moment.

Morgan’s voice boomed across the rink. “All right, scrimmage time! Let’s see some fucking hustle!”

We split into two teams, anticipation crackling in the air. The puck dropped, and we surged forward. The game was fast-paced, bodies colliding as we fought for control. I felt alive out there, every nerve ending firing as I navigated the chaos.

I intercepted a pass and took off down the ice, weaving between defenders with practiced ease. The goal loomed ahead, and I could hear my teammates shouting encouragement behind me. I wound up for a shot, feeling the power surge through my muscles as I released the puck.

It sailed past the goalie’s outstretched glove and into the net with a satisfying thud. My team erupted in cheers, and I couldn’t help but grin as we skated back to center ice.

The rest of practice flew by in a blur of drills and scrimmages. By the time Coach Morgan blew his whistle to signal the end, my legs were burning and my jersey was soaked with sweat.

We gathered at center ice for a quick debrief. Morgan ran through our strengths and areas for improvement, his voice carrying authority.

“Good work today,” he said finally. “Rest up and be ready for tomorrow’s game.”

With that, we dispersed to the locker room. The atmosphere was lighter now, filled with post-practice banter and laughter.

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