Page 58 of The Pucking Player

“Sophie, come on,” I try to calm her. “I’d never want to hold you back. I think what you’re doing is terrific?—”

But she’s not listening, too busy shoving her feet into her boots. “I won’t let anything distract me from my plans, Liam. Not even you.”

The words hit me like a body check, sucking all the air out of my lungs.

“Wait, angel. Let me drive you.”

She grabs her bag and coat, heading for the door. “I’ll grab an Uber. I’ll...I’ll call you later, ok?”

And just like that, she’s gone, slamming the door behind her and leaving me feeling like I’ve been hit by a freight train.

What the hell just happened? One minute, I’m ready to risk my career and face down Coach Novak, and the next, Sophie’s running out like I’m some kind of career-destroying demon.

I go back to bed and flop onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Her scent is enveloping me. I can’t say I’ve ever been pushed away like this before. Hell, I’ve never cared enough to notice.

“Well, O’Connor,” I mutter to myself, “looks like you’ve got some work to do.”

I grab my phone, contemplating whether to text her ornot. The need to clear things up battles with my bruised ego. But I toss the phone aside, deciding to give her space.

I drag myself out of bed, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep—and rejection—and throw my gym gear into a duffel bag. At least I can work out my frustrations on the weights.

In the kitchen, I start assembling my pre-workout fuel. A scoop of vanilla protein powder, a handful of frozen berries, a banana, a splash of oat milk I bought for Sophie, just in case she’d agree to stay over. Well, that didn’t go as planned. I sigh as the blender whirs to life, drowning out my thoughts for a blessed few seconds. I down half the shake, the cold, sweet mixture a stark contrast to the bitter taste of this morning’s scene.

The drive to the Defenders’ training complex is a blur of early morning traffic and grayish winter light. I sip the rest of my shake at red lights, the protein and carbs slowly working their way into my system. As I pull into the parking lot, the massive structure looms before me, all sleek lines and tinted glass. It’s like a fortress dedicated to turning us into the best versions of ourselves.

I badge in, the familiar beep a welcome sound. The lobby’s all polished concrete and steel, with larger-than-life photos of past and present Defenders lining the walls. As I push through the double doors into the gym proper, the scent hits me first—that unique cocktail of sweat, rubber, and pump.

The weight room is a marvel of modern training tech. Racks of dumbbells gleam under the bright lights, their chrome surfaces reflecting the early morning sun streaming through the high windows. Top-of-the-line machines hum softly, ready to push us to our limits. In one corner, a turf area for sprints and agility work waits, promising burning lungs and screaming muscles.

Bring it on.

My eyes are drawn to the far end of the room, where Dmitri is setting up at the squat rack. His focused expression softens as he spots me.

“Morning, Captain,” he calls out, his accent thick as always. “Care to join me? I’ve just finished my warm-up.”

I nod, grateful for the company. “Sounds good, Dima. Let’s see if we can crush some personal records today.”

Dmitri grins and starts loading the bar. He slides on plate after plate with practiced ease—four forty-fives on each side, bringing the total to four hundred and ten pounds. It’s a hefty weight, but we are both big players, weighing more than two hundred pounds. We can handle it.

While he finishes setting up, I start my warm-up routine. I begin with some dynamic stretches, focusing on loosening up my hips and ankles. Then I move to bodyweight squats, feeling the light burn in my quads and glutes. A few sets of light Romanian deadlifts follow, homing in on that hamstring stretch.

By the time I approach the rack, I’m breathing harder, a light sheen of sweat on my skin. My muscles feel warm and ready. As I chalk up my hands, I can feel the morning’s tension starting to melt away.

Dmitri finishes his set, his face flushed and a vein pulsing in his forehead. He racks the bar with a satisfying clang that echoes through the gym.

I step up, rolling my shoulders and feeling the chalk dust on my palms. The knurling of the bar bites into my hands as I grip it, a familiar sensation that grounds me. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, then duck under the bar.

The cold metal settles across my shoulders, heavy and unyielding. I unrack the weight, feeling it compress myspine, my core tightening instinctively. The first rep is always a shock to the system. I descend slowly, thighs burning as they stretch under the load. At the bottom, my hamstrings touch my calves, and I explode upward, driving through my heels.

One rep down. The weight already feels substantial, but there’s an anticipation building in my muscles, a readiness for the challenge ahead. I can almost feel the impending rush of endorphins, the satisfying burn that will come with pushing my limits.

As I finish my last rep, Dmitri clears his throat. I pause, the bar still across my shoulders, my quads quivering slightly under the static hold.

“Liam,” he says, his voice low, barely audible over my controlled breathing, “I think I might know something about the PEDs scandal.”

His words hit me harder than the weight I’m carrying.

I nearly drop the bar in surprise. Setting it back on the rack with a loud clang, I turn to face him. “What? How?”

---