Page 82 of Slap Shot Daddies

He crashes into a rookie during a drill, nearly sending the unfortunate kid skidding across the ice.

Coach’s whistle slices through the air like a knife, his voice a commanding bark that demands attention. “Gallagher! What the hell was that?” he shouts, frustration evident.

Braden skates off, a clenched jaw and furrowed brow betraying the storm brewing within, muttering inaudibly as he goes. During a break, I glide over to Reggie, my chest heaving as I catch my breath, the sweat beginning to soak into the fabric of my jersey’s collar.

“What’s up with him?” I ask, using my glove to wipe the moisture from my face.

Reggie shrugs, his mouthguard shifting slightly as he chews on it contemplatively. “Dunno. He was fine this morning.”

I nod, though an uneasy feeling settles like a weight in my chest. This isn’t the Braden I know. He’s the heartbeat of our team, the laid-back, jovial force that keeps us grounded.

This tense, volatile behavior? It’s something else entirely.

The ice carries the fragrance of fresh ice shavings, a sharp, clean aroma, but the tension in the rink is thicker than the frost-laden air surrounding us.

Practice drags on, yet whatever is choking Braden refuses to loosen its hold.

His passes are erratic, and his skates slice too aggressively into the ice with each maneuver. Every check he delivers seems powered by something dark and simmering beneath the surface.

I push through the drills, but my attention keeps drifting back to him. Even beneath his helmet, the tension in his clenched jaw is visible. The usual banter isn’t there. There are no jokes, no ribbing.

Coach’s voice booms across the rink again. “Braden, I swear to God, if you keep playing like you’re trying to break someone’s leg, you’re riding pine next game!”

Frustrated, Braden slams his stick against the boards, muttering something under his breath that I can’t quite catch.

I glide over, lowering my voice to a gentle murmur. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”

He avoids my gaze. “Nothing, Ambrose. Just leave it.”

But that’s not nothing. It’s everything.

I retreat, but unease coils tighter in my stomach. We’ve all faced rough patches, but this feels like something more profound, like a fuse dangerously close to igniting.

The sounds of practice blur into a backdrop of white noise; the scrape of blades, the sharp crack of pucks, Coach’s barked commands.

My muscles burn with exertion, yet nothing cuts through the worry wearing on me.

What on earth is going on with him?

The snap finally comes, echoing through the rink like a shot. Braden rips off his helmet, his chest heaving with each breath. “Coach, I need to talk,” he says, his voice taut with urgency.

The rest of us slow down, our curiosity piqued. Coach waves him over, and they converse in hushed tones.

I strain to catch snippets of their exchange. “Yeah…just personal stuff…need some time,” Braden mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.

Coach nods, a look of understanding on his face as he gives Braden a reassuring pat on the back. “Take care of it, Gallagher,” he says, his tone gentle yet firm.

Braden skates away, leaving us in a wake of confusion, his retreating figure a blur on the ice. When practice wraps up, Reggie and I head to the locker room, finding him there. He’s shoving his gear into a duffel bag with an urgency that suggests he’s fleeing something unseen.

“What’s this about?” I ask, leaning against a cold metal locker, arms crossed, and eyebrows knitted in concern.

He doesn’t meet my gaze. “Just need a break,” he replies, his tone flat and unyielding.

Reggie frowns, worry etching lines into his features. “Braden, mate…what’s actually going on?”

Braden freezes momentarily, his body tense as a coiled spring, then shakes his head. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he insists, though the words ring hollow in the air.

That’s a lie.

---