Page 133 of Game Misconduct
Which works fine for me.
I’ve been edge and nothing else for years.
I hit the ice first, do my usual warmup drills, and let my body take over while my head tries to level out.
It doesn’t. The glide’s off. The rhythm’s wrong. My balance is fine, but something inside feels...misaligned.
Sloane’s voice is still in my head. Her nails still on my back. The taste of her still in my goddamn mouth.
“You always skate like a psychopath, or just today?”
Finn. Loud as hell, gliding up beside me like he owns the rink.
“Don’t you have some chaos to go cause elsewhere?” I mutter.
He grins. “I am the chaos.”
I cut away from him, chasing speed. If I can’t get her out of my head, maybe I can at least burn her out of my muscles.
After drills, we head to the weight room. The usual noise—jokes, shit talking, music that’s too loud.
I towel off, neck still damp, and grab a bottle of water. That’s when I feel it.
The rookie shadow.
Cal’s not obvious about it. He’s not clingy. Doesn’t ask questions. He just…watches. Studies.
I catch him mid-set, lifting clean, form tight, eyes flicking to me between reps.
I take a swig of water and nod at his stance. “You keep your knees locked like that, you're gonna blow’ em by midseason.”
He pauses. Adjusts. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t puff up or over-apologize like some wide-eyed rookie looking for approval.
It’s not the first time he’s hovered nearby, either. He’s quiet. Steady. Like he’s trying to download everything just by standing close enough.
Later, in the locker room, the vets are laying into him. Nothing brutal. Just the usual quips.
“You still bringing your mom’s casserole to team dinners?” Finn throws out.
Riley smirks. “Bet he’s got his name stitched in his jockstrap.”
“Better stitched than scratched,” Cal fires back, voice deadpan.
That earns a few laughs. Finn claps him on the back.
The kid doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh too hard either. He just takes it. Rides it out.
I like that.
There’s something there.
“Don’t let’ em smell blood,” I tell him as I drop to the bench next to him, unwrapping tape from my wrist. “If they do, they’ll start circling and they won’t stop.”
He nods slowly, chewing on that. “So what—you just take the hits and pretend you like it?”
I shrug. “You skate through it. You hit back later. On the ice.”
