Page 40 of Off the Ice

But instead, he looked… dulled. Muted. Like someone had dimmed him from the inside out.

I watched him now, shoulders curved inward as he sat at the end of the bench, helmet still on like he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t look at the scoreboard. Didn’t say a word between shifts. Not even a chirp or a nod. The spark that used to light in his eyes the second his skates hit the ice—it was gone.

The flicker of unease that had been trailing me all week started to tighten in my chest.

Something was wrong.

And it was starting to bleed into his game—hesitation in his passes, a half-second delay in his zone entries, a kind of tentative energy that made him feel like a stranger in his own body. You don’t always need a stat sheet to tell you when something’s off. Sometimes, it’s a feeling in your gut. An instinct.

I knew that feeling well.

It reminded me of those long hours on the ice when I was younger, long before scouts and contracts and televised games. When it was just me, a net, and the sound of my blade carving into the ice. I used to stay late, until the rink lights went dim and the cold started to bite through my gloves. I’d line up puck after puck, chasing some version of perfect I couldn’t name yet. Most of the time, I missed. Wild shots. Over the crossbar. Wide of the post. But every now and then, I’d hit it just right. That crisp snap, the clean arc of the puck, the sharp ping of iron—it would all line up.

That’s when I learned to feel the difference. When you’ve spent enough time in the quiet, repeating the same motion over and over, you start to notice the smallest shifts. A change in grip. The angle of your shoulders. Where your weight sits on your skates. It becomes muscle memory, sure—but it also becomes something deeper. You start to recognize the moments when somethingisn’t right, even if you can’t explain it.

That’s what watching Darren felt like.

Like a shot youknowshould have gone in—but didn’t. Something off in the mechanics. A hitch that didn’t used to be there. It wasn’t physical—his stride still looked good, his hands still moved. But the energy was wrong. The rhythm.

I’d seen players crack before. Not just under pressure, but under something heavier. Stuff you couldn’t see on the stat line. Family shit. Mental load. Personal storms that no amount of tape review could fix.

I didn’t know what Darren was carrying. But I knew this wasn’t about hockey anymore.

And I hated the way it pulled at me—this urge to fix it. To say something. Todosomething. But I also knew what it felt like to be watched too closely when you were trying to hold your pieces together. Push too hard, and people retreat. Call it out too soon, and you risk making them fold altogether.

Coach barked out a call to the ice. I pushed to my feet, shaking off the distraction. Darren didn’t move, still staring down at his skates like they might offer answers to whatever was eating him alive.

“Rivers,” I called, my voice sharp enough to catch his attention. He flinched, looking up at me with wide eyes.

“Yeah?”

“You coming, or what?” I asked, nodding toward the tunnel.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.” He fumbled with his gear, his movements jerky as he grabbed his helmet and followed the rest of us out.

The unease in my gut didn’t fade, but there wasn’t time to deal with it. We had a game to win.

***

We hit the ice, and the roar of the crowd crashed over me like a tidal wave. The energy was electric, the opposing team’s fans trying to drown us out with boos while our small pocket of traveling supporters shouted our names. This was the part I lived for—the adrenaline, the noise, the focus.

The puck dropped, and the game started fast, both teams skating hard, sticks slashing at the ice with precision. The other team, the Colorado Colts, was known for their aggressive forechecking, and they weren’t holding back tonight. Every time we got the puck out of our zone, one of their forwards was right there, pressing, hounding, forcing mistakes.

I won my first faceoff against Hanley, their captain, and chipped the puck back to Connor, who sent it around the boards. The Colts crashed the net, trying to jam it in during a chaotic scramble, but our goalie, Trotter, smothered it just in time. The whistle blew, and we reset for another faceoff.

Every shift, I tried to focus on my game, but my attention kept drifting to Darren. He was playing like he didn’t want to be noticed. Staying to the perimeter, making soft dumps into the offensive zone instead of driving the net like he usually did. His timing was off, his passes hesitant. It was like he didn’t trust himself, or worse, like he didn’t trust us.

Midway through the first period, we were down 1–0. The Colts capitalized on a defensive breakdown, cycling the puck low and catching us out of position. I skated to the bench, sucking in deep breaths as Coach barked orders behind me. My chest heaved, sweat dripping down the back of my neck.

“Bennett!” Coach shouted. “Keep the pressure up. They’re not invincible. And someone light a fire under Rivers’ ass!”

I nodded, but when I glanced down the bench at Darren, he was staring into the distance, his helmet tilted low to hide his face. The guy was unraveling right in front of me.

By the second period, we’d tied it up, thanks to a beauty of a goal from Jaymie. He cut through the slot, sniped it top-shelf, and celebrated with his usual over-the-top fist pump. The momentum shifted in our favor, and for a few minutes, it felt like we were in control. But Darren was still off. He got beat on a backcheck, missed an easy breakout pass, and took a careless tripping penalty in the neutral zone.

The Colts scored on the power play, an easy one-timer off a cross-crease pass that left Trotter no chance. Back on the bench, Darren slammed his stick against the boards, splinters flying as he cursed under his breath.

I leaned over. “Get your head in the game,” I said low enough that only he could hear. “Whatever’s going on, leave it off the ice.”

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