Page 81 of The Pucking Player

Including the Russian mob.

I load more weight onto the bar, hoping the physical pain might dull the ache in my chest. The mental image of her finding out—probably over morning coffee, scrolling through her phone—makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Or better yet, through Volkov’s face.

But this is the play. Keep her safe. Keep her away. Even if it means she hates me.

Even if it means losing the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I adjust my stance in front of the squat rack, bare feet planted firmly on the rubber mat. My workout shorts and compression shirt are already damp with sweat from the warm-up sets. Three plates on each side of the bar—three hundred and fifteen pounds. A decent weight for pre-practice legs, especially since Coach will probably make us do suicides later.

Closing my eyes, I focus on my breath. The weight room’s familiar scents settle me—rubber mats, chalk dust, that metallic tang of well-used equipment. Everything’s exactly where it should be, from the wall of dumbbells glinting in the fluorescent lights to the row of treadmills facing the windows. This is my domain. Under my control.

Unlike my love life.

Shut up. Focus.

I duck under the bar, feeling its knurled surface settle across my traps. Unrack the weight. Another deep breath filling my chest. Brace my core.

First rep. Down slow, controlled. Quads burning, hamstrings stretching. Hit depth, drive through my heels. Up explosive, powered by breath.

Sophie’s face when she saw me at her dorm that night, all flushed and beautiful...

Fuck.

The bar wobbles slightly.

Amateur mistake.

Reset. Another breath.

Second rep. Down. Up. This is meditation in motion. Each rep a prayer to the hockey gods. Each breath a?—

The way she bit her lip when I kissed her...

The weight suddenly feels twice as heavy. My form slips, chest starting to cave.

Control. Find your center.

But my center is currently prepping for a Stanford interview, probably hating my guts thanks to those photos with Olivia.

Focus, dumbass. Before you hurt yourself.

I rack the bar with more force than necessary, chalk dust puffing up in protest. This isn’t working. Maybe I should switch to deadlifts. Or just bang my head against the wall for an hour. Might be more productive.

The door slams open like a gunshot.

Coach Novak fills the doorway like an angry storm front. Even at sixty, he’s built like the defenseman he used to be—a wall of solid muscle and barely contained rage. His silver hair is shower-wet. He must have rushed here. A vein pulses in his temple as he stalks toward me, an envelope crushed in his white-knuckled grip.

“I knew,” he spits, each word dripping venom, “letting you anywhere near my daughter was a mistake.”

The weights suddenly feel like child’s play compared to the tension crackling through the room. I wipe my palms on my shorts, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“Coach—”

He hurls the envelope at my chest. Photos spill out, fluttering to the rubber mat like dead leaves.

Oh fuck.

There we are, Sophie and me, crystal clear in glorious high-res. Leaving the B&B, hand in hand. Another of us kissing outside her dorm. More of her coming and going from my apartment building, timestamps telling their own damning story.

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