Page 13 of Ice Melts

“Alright, boys, let’s run it again,” Coach barked, pacing along the boards. “Crisp passes, quick transitions. I want this line ready to bury it in the net. No excuses.”

Travis nodded, leaning on his stick as he caught his breath. His legs burned, but it was a good burn, the kind that reminded him he was pushing himself to the limit. He thrived on this—on the grind, the adrenaline, the unrelenting pursuit of perfection.

The drills started again, the puck flying across the ice in a blur of motion. Travis tracked it instinctively, moving into position, anticipating the pass before it came. He received the puck cleanly, pivoting on his skates and firing a shot towardthe net. It clanged off the post, but Jake was there to bury the rebound.

“Nice one!” Travis called, clapping Jake on the back as they circled back to the bench.

But not everyone was keeping pace.

Logan lagged behind, his movements slower, less precise. He fumbled a pass, the puck slipping off the blade of his stick and skittering toward the boards.

“Come on, Logan!” Coach yelled, his voice cutting across the ice. “Pick it up!”

Logan muttered something under his breath, skating after the puck.

Travis frowned, watching him closely. Logan wasn’t himself. His movements were sloppy, his reactions a step behind. It wasn’t just a bad day—this was something deeper.

The drill reset, and Logan was up again, this time leading the rush. He carried the puck up the ice but mishandled it, losing control as one of the rookies poked it away. The whistle blew, and Coach’s frustration was palpable.

“Logan!” he shouted. “What the hell was that? Tighten it up!”

Logan’s face was a mask of irritation as he skated back to the group, avoiding eye contact. Travis could feel the tension radiating off him like a storm cloud.

The next drill was no better. Logan collided with another player, his temper snapping as he shoved the guy hard enough to send him sprawling.

“Hey!” Travis skated over, grabbing Logan’s arm. “What’s your problem?”

Logan jerked away, his eyes blazing. “Get off me, Jenkins.”

“Logan, chill out,” Jake said, skating over to diffuse the situation.

“Don’t tell me to chill!” Logan snapped, his voice echoing across the rink.

Coach blew the whistle, storming onto the ice. “Logan! Locker room. Now.”

Logan hesitated, his jaw tight, but eventually turned and skated off, his movements jerky and tense.

The rest of practice continued, but the mood had shifted. Travis tried to focus, to shake off the uneasy feeling in his gut, but it lingered. He couldn’t stop thinking about Logan—about the mistakes, the anger, the way he seemed to be unraveling right in front of them.

When practice finally ended, Travis headed into the locker room, peeling off his gear and tossing it into his cubby. The room was quiet, the usual post-practice banter replaced by an awkward silence.

Coach stalked in, his expression grim. He began moving players’ gear aside, his sharp eyes scanning the room. When he reached Logan’s stall, he grabbed a duffel bag and yanked it off the bench. The bag hit the floor, and something fell out—a small plastic bag filled with pills.

The room went completely still.

Coach bent down, picking up the bag with two fingers, his jaw tightening as he stared at it. Without a word, he turned and walked toward his office, the bag clutched in his hand.

A moment later, Logan appeared in the doorway, his face pale as Coach gestured for him to come in.

The door slammed shut, but the yelling started almost immediately.

Travis couldn’t make out every word, but the tone was unmistakable. Anger. Frustration. Disappointment.

“You think this is a joke?” Coach’s voice was muffled but still loud enough to carry. “You’re supposed to be a professional!”

Logan’s response was too low to hear, but it only seemed to make Coach angrier.

“This is your career on the line, Logan! You want to throw it all away for this crap?”

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