Page 74 of Slap Shot Daddies

The worry creeps back in, a dull, persistent ache that I can’t quite shake off. I breathe deeply, trying to steady the unease.

Tomorrow’s another day, I remind myself.

Maybe we’ll get some answers.

I tap open the group chat with Braden and Ambrose, my fingers darting swiftly over the screen as I type.

>> Coach needs me in early tomorrow, and knowing him, late as well. Can you two check on Kenz if we decide to stop by?

Setting the phone down, I lean back into the couch.

A minute later, the screen lights up.

Braden>> Yeah, we got it.

Ambrose>> No problem. You focus on Coach.

I nod to myself. We’ve always had each other’s backs, on and off the ice.

This situation with Kenzie…it’s different. More complicated. But the core of it remains the same, we protect our own.

Still, a heaviness lingers in my chest, like a stone weighing me down.

I don’t like being left out when it comes to her. It feels as though I’m stepping away from something crucial, like a puzzle with a missing piece.

But the team needs me. Coach needs me.

I push the guilt aside, stretching out my legs, the muscles still tight and aching from practice.

The hot water in the shower pounds relentlessly against my back melting away the day's tension.

I try to clear my mind: to focus solely on the heat loosening the tightness in my shoulders, but it’s a futile effort.

Kenzie’s face keeps slipping into my thoughts. Her infectious laugh echoes in my mind, her nervous habit of biting her lip replaying like a looped video. The memory of her skin, soft and inviting under my hands that night, lingers persistently…

I exhale sharply, watching as the water cascades over my chest, rinsing away the remnants of soap. This thing with her, it’s weaving its way into my very being.

I’ve had flings before, no doubt, but this feels different.

She is different.

I crave more, and that realization sends a shiver of fear down my spine.

Stepping onto the cold tile, I grab a towel, running it through my damp hair. The towel is coarse against my skin as I dry off, but the sensation barely registers.

My mind is consumed by thoughts of her: the worry, the desire, the deep-seated ache settling somewhere in my chest.

I dress swiftly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a comfortable hoodie, then sink back onto the couch. The house is quiet, the hushed sounds of Ambrose moving around in his room the only disturbance.

I need to let this unfold, to find patience amidst the chaos of my emotions.

I pull out my well-worn notebook and flip it open. The paper feels slightly rough under my fingertips, carrying a scent of ink, glue, and leather binding.

It's a testament to years of dedicated use, pages filled with plays hastily scribbled down in the dead of night, formations brainstormed during long flights, and ideas sketched out over casual post-game beers.

Coach has put in a request for new drills, so I begin drafting with focused determination.

I jot down notes. Intricate breakout patterns, seamless defensive transitions, intense small-area puck battles. I sketch out a few setups with arrows crisscrossing over detailed diagrams of the rink, each line telling a story of movement and strategy.

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