Page 58 of Off-Limits as Puck

23

Cold is supposed to be my element, but lately I’m frozen in all the wrong ways.

On the ice, I move through drills like a machine—precise, effective, empty. No fire. No edge. Just mechanical perfection that feels like dying in slow motion. My passes connect, my shots find the net, but there’s nothing behind them. I’m playing hockey like it’s a job instead of the only thing that’s ever made sense.

“Hendrix!” Coach barks. “Pick up the pace!”

I nod, increase speed, execute the drill flawlessly. And feel nothing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dez asks during water break, studying me with rookie concern. “You’re playing like... I don’t know. Like someone else.”

“Maybe that’s better,” I say, squirting water into my mouth.

“Better? Dude, you’re playing like a robot. Where’s the guy who taught me to trust my instincts?”

Good question. That guy’s too busy texting his therapist inappropriate things and watching her across cafeterias like a stalker. That guy’s one more loaded look away from destroying everything he’s rebuilt.

“Just focused,” I tell him.

“Focused on what? Because it’s not hockey.”

He skates away before I can answer, which is good because I don’t have one. How do I explain that I’m trying to freeze out feelings that burn hotter every day? That playing with passion means playing with everything else Chelsea makes me feel, and I can’t separate the two anymore?

Practice ends, and we hit the gym. I’m halfway through bench press when Stevens opens his fucking mouth.

“So what’s the deal with you and the doc?” He’s spotting me, grinning like he knows something. “Saw you two at the gala. That dance looked cozy.”

“Just a dance.” I rack the weights harder than necessary.

“Right. A dance where you looked ready to bend her over the—”

I’m on my feet before the sentence finishes. Don’t remember moving, don’t remember deciding. One second he’s running his mouth, the next my fist connects with his jaw and we’re crashing into equipment.

He fights back—Stevens is no rookie—and we’re trading punches like it’s playoffs, not a Tuesday gym session. Someone’s yelling. Multiple someones. Hands pulling us apart, but I’m beyond caring. All the frozen control shatters, and I’m pure fire again, burning everything in reach.

“ENOUGH!”

Coach’s voice cuts through the chaos. Stevens and I separate, breathing hard, blood on both our faces. The entire team stands frozen, watching their supposedly reformed enforcer prove he hasn’t changed at all.

“Everyone out,” Coach says quietly. Dangerously. “Except Hendrix.”

They file out silently. Stevens shoots me a look that’s part anger, part pity. Weston pauses at the door, but I wave him off. This is my mess.

When we’re alone, Coach just stares at me. The silence stretches, broken only by my ragged breathing and the drip of blood from my split lip.

“Two months,” he finally says. “Two months of progress. Of proving you could be more than your fists. And this is what you give me?”

“He was—”

“I don’t care what he was doing. You think this is about Stevens? This is about you losing control. Again.” He steps closer. “What happened to the player who was mentoring rookies? Who was channeling his intensity into the game instead of violence?”

“Maybe he was fake. Maybe this is who I really am.”

“Bullshit.” The word cracks like a whip. “I’ve seen who you really are. Glimpses of it. The player who could lead this team if he’d get out of his own way. But instead, you’re here, bleeding in my gym because someone said something about—what? A woman?”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer.

“You’re done for the day. Maybe longer. I need to think about whether you belong on this team.” He heads for the door, pauses. “Whatever’s going on with you, figure it out or end it. Because this version of you? This frozen, violent mess? We don’tneed him.”

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