Page 94 of The Pucking Player

“Columbia has that new neuroscience center.”

“Stanford has year-round sunshine.”

“Columbia has,” she pauses meaningfully, “bagels.”

I flop back to the floor and sigh. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m just saying, running away to California won’t fix your heartache. And we’d be closer to each other. Like a car ride away.”

“A long car ride. And I’m not running away! I’m making a rational, professional decision about my academic future. That has absolutely nothing to do with Liam.”

“There’s still hope I’ll get off the Stanford waitlist,” she chimes and turns to her toes again.

Meanwhile on screen, Liam scores a goal that makes the announcer scream like he’s being murdered. But it’s what happens next that makes my breath catch.

“Wait,” I sit up straighter, my hand unconsciously going to my left wrist. “Did he just...”

“Did he just what?” Jenna’s focused on fanning her toes. “Score another impossibly beautiful goal while looking impossibly beautiful doing it?”

“No, after. His celly. Look at his hands.”

“His hands?” Now she’s interested, pausing mid-stroke. “What about it?”

I rewind the clip, my heart thundering. There it is—the quick touch above his left wrist before pointing skyward. The exact spot where he wrote his number on my arm at the hospital.

“I don’t get it,” Jenna squints at the screen. “Looks like a standard ‘thank the hockey gods’ gesture to me. He’s been doing that a lot lately.”

“He has?” The words come out embarrassingly breathless.

“Oh yeah. After every goal. The commentators think it’s his new good luck ritual or something.” She eyes me suspiciously. “Why? Does it mean something to you?”

I force my hand away from my wrist, where I can almost feel the phantom press of his marker.

“No,” I fib, reaching for Stanford’s brochure again. “Just...weird.”

On screen, Liam’s frozen mid-celly, his fingers pressed to his wrist, and suddenly, three thousand miles doesn’t feel nearly far enough away.

32

ICE BATHS AND RUSSIAN MOBSTERS

LIAM

My alarm chirps at six-thirty a.m., and I lay still for a moment, letting myself drift in that space between sleep and wakefulness. This is where the magic happens—the alpha state, where the mind is at its most moldable. Where champions are made.

Where I figure out how to get Sophie back.

You know, the little things.

I settle into my meditation spot by the window, crossing my legs on the floor. Tarrytown’s still asleep for the most part, a perfect canvas for focusing my energy. This practice has become my secret weapon these past few weeks. An hour of deep breathing and activating energy centers in my body is what’s keeping me alive through Coach Novak’s special brand of hell. I visualize roots growing from my feet, deep into the earth’s core, drawing up power. Regenerative and survival energy. The kind you need when your girlfriend’s—ex-girlfriend’sfather is trying to murder you via suicide drills.

As painful as it is, the old man’s rage—pushing me to my absolute limits—is turning me into a hockey-playing superhero.Who knew getting your ass handed to you on the daily could be this effective?

By nine, I’m at the gym and already on my third set of resistance band core work when Dmitri strolls in, looking way too energetic for someone who has a six-year-old to drop off every morning before practice. He watches me struggle through Russian twists with the band anchored behind me, probably composing a sonnet about my suffering.

“Still not enough punishment, Captain?” He settles onto the mat next to me, pulling out his own resistance bands. “Coach Novak’s daily beatings not satisfying?”

I release the band, letting myself collapse onto the mat. “At least I’m channeling cosmic energy instead of memorizing sonnets, Wordsworth.”

---