Page 52 of Snowed In With the PUCK

Bart smirks, clearly enjoying the show, and it takes everything in me not to deck him right here and now. But I don’t. I just nod, muttering with a long, cold look at Coach, “Got it.”

Coach looks at me for a moment, meeting me stare for stare, then turns to Bart. “Same goes for you, Knowles. I know you’ve got a history with Eric, but that’s in the past. You’re on the Avalanche now. Act like it, or you’ll be out of here faster than you can say trade.”

Bart raises his hands in mock surrender, but I can see the smugness in his eyes. “Sure thing, Coach. Just trying to keep the peace.”

“Bullshit,” I mutter under my breath, but Coach catches it.

“What was that, Gator?” he asks, his voice sharp.

I shrug, not really caring anymore. “Nothing. Just thinking maybe this trade here isn’t for me. Where’s the fucking loyalty, man?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and for a second, the locker room goes silent. I feel the weight of Coach’s stare on me, and I know I’ve crossed a line. But the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of the pressure, tired of the drama, tired of feeling like I’m stuck between two worlds—one where I’m supposed to be the team’s star player and another where I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on with my life… with my mom, and with Jess.

Coach doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies me with that unreadable expression he gets when he’s deciding whether to rip someone a new one or let it slide. Finally, he just shakes his head. “Get your ass on the ice, Warren. And leave that bullshit back in Nashville.”

I grab my helmet, trying to shake off the tension as I head out of the locker room and onto the ice. But Bart’s words are still rattling around in my head, and I can’t help but feel like everything’s starting to spiral out of control.

Practice is tense. Everyone can feel it. Passes are sloppy, shots are off-target, and the usual easy banter between the guys is practically nonexistent.

I’m skating drills with Ryan when I see Bart out of the corner of my eye, glaring at me from across the rink. I try to ignore him, focusing on the puck, but it’s like there’s this invisible weight pressing down on me, making it impossible to concentrate.

“You okay, man?” Ryan asks, his voice low as we skate toward the boards. “You seem… off.”

I shrug, not wanting to get into it. “Just tired. Long couple of days.”

Ryan nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. “Yeah, well, don’t let Bart get to you. He’s just trying to stir the pot. He’d love to get you suspended for some crazy reasons that probably don’t even make sense.”

I glance over at Bart again, watching as he lazily skates circles around one of the other guys, clearly not taking practice seriously. “Yeah, I know.”

But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier. The thing is, Bart and I go way back. Back to Nashville, back to when we were both fighting for the same spot on the roster. He’s always been a thorn in my side, always looking for ways to undermine me, and now, with him on the Avalanche, it feels like history’s repeating itself.

We finish the drill, and Coach blows the whistle, calling everyone over for a quick huddle. His face is tight, and I can tell he’s not happy with how practice is going.

“Listen up,” he says, his voice carrying across the ice. “I know it’s been a long couple of days with the holidays. I know you’re all rusty and still in vacation mindsets. But we’ve got a game coming up, and if this is how you’re going to play, we’re screwed. So, let’s cut the crap and start focusing. Got it?”

There’s a chorus of mumbled agreements, but I can feel the frustration simmering beneath the surface. No one’s really into it today, and Coach knows it.

He lets out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “All right, listen. We’re going to need all hands on deck if we want to make a real run this season, so I expect you all to work together, got it?”

I catch Bart’s eye, and he smirks. It’s like he knows exactly how much this is going to mess with me, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

“Now, let’s get back to work,” Coach says, blowing the whistle again.

The rest of practice is a blur. I go through the motions, skating, shooting, trying to keep my head in the game, but it’s hard. Every time I catch a glimpse of Bart, my frustration grows. He’s skating half-heartedly, barely putting in any effort, and it’s pissing me off.

By the time practice ends, I’m drained—physically, mentally, emotionally. I head back to the locker room, trying to keep my cool, but as soon as I sit down, Bart plops down on the bench next to me, grinning like he’s just won the lottery.

“Man, you really are wound up, aren’t you?” he says, laughing.

I don’t respond. I’m too tired for this.

“You know,” Bart continues, leaning in a little closer, “if you’re thinking about taking that trade offer that everyone is whispering about in the league, maybe now’s the time. I mean,if you can’t handle a little competition, Denver might not be the place for you.”

I clench my fists, trying to keep my temper in check. But it’s hard. So damn hard.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter.

Bart chuckles. “Maybe. But if I were you, I’d think long and hard about where your priorities are.”

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