Page 44 of The Pucks We Freeze
Coach stepped onto the ice just as the usual pre-practice chatter died down. Clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging from his neck. But his movements were stiff, and his attention focused elsewhere.
“All right, listen up,” he called, voice sharp as it echoed through the arena.
We gathered at the blue line, blades scraping as we slowed to a stop. Rowdy drifted up beside me, chewing on his mouth guard, while Owen rested his gloved hands on his knees. Talon stood tall, unreadable as ever.
Coach didn’t bother looking at any of us when he said it.
“Cruz is done for the season.”
That was all he said. No explanation. No warning. Just dropped the words like a puck at center ice and expected us to keep moving.
A heavy, stunned silence followed, twisting my gut before my brain could catch up. I glanced around.
Rowdy straightened, his brow furrowing. “Wait, what?”
Owen’s head snapped toward the bench. “What do you mean done?”
Talon shifted beside me, jaw ticking, but he didn’t speak. No one did.
The unease spread like a chill.
“What happened to him?” someone asked from behind me. One of the younger players, voice uncertain. “Did he quit? Is he hurt?”
Coach blew the whistle and turned his back. “That’s all I’m saying. Warm-ups. Now.”
And just like that, the conversation was over. Shut down.
No answers. No details. Just a wall of silence we weren’t allowed to climb.
I caught Rowdy’s eye, then Owen’s. They looked just as rattled as I felt. We’d all been bracing for something, but this?
This felt too clean. Too final. Like the kind of silence that didn’t come from injury, but from something darker.
Coach called out again, louder this time. “Let’s go, boys!”
We pushed into practice. The air felt sharper, my limbs weighed down by tension. On paper, the rest of the regular season didn’t matter. We’d already clinched a playoff spot, but pride? It still mattered.
Pride was a hell of a motivator. And right now, it was all we had.
As practice started to wind down, I rounded the net and spotted her immediately.
Willow stood just beyond the glass, bundled in a knit scarf and beanie, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold. Her eyes met mine, bright and certain. She wore my jersey as if it were made for her.
I drifted closer, pressing my gloved hand to the glass. She stepped forward, breath fogging the pane, and a soft smile curved her lips.
“I changed my ticket to tomorrow,” she called, voice muffled but clear. “I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I needed to show you, for you to know… I’m not flying away this time. I’ll be back.”
A rush of relief and something warmer uncoiled in my chest. Her choice to stay—even just a little longer—was all that mattered.
I skated through the last few drills under the arena lights. Each glide was a reminder that this moment, with her still here, was mine.
Nothing else mattered. Not the shattered window, the anonymous threats, or the secrets hiding beneath the surface.
Tomorrow, the real game began. The road to the playoffs started with that first whistle, and I’d be ready.
But tonight, I was exactly where I was meant to be.
***
