Page 28 of Game Misconduct
My body runs hot, and I’m way too aware of every scar under the skin. The left shoulder pulls tight from the old rotator cuff tear and my right knee clicks when I shift.
It’s the kind of damage that doesn’t show up on the stat sheet but lives in your bones.
“You always this quiet, or just biding your time?”
Jace’s voice cuts through the low buzz, calm and unreadable.
I glance his way. “Ask me after practice.”
His nod is barely perceptible, but I catch it.
Respect, maybe. Or a warning.
Hard to tell.
Peacock Hunt isn’t done.
“Boston finally trade you in for a newer model? Can’t imagine they’ll miss the penalty minutes.”
I let the silence stretch until I feel him start to squirm. Then I turn just enough for him to see the look in my eyes.
“Careful, kid. Keep chirping like that, and I’ll start treating you like the newer model. And you won’t last a shift.”
Finn hoots from across the room. “Damn, Hunt. You just got buried in the locker room. Wear a helmet next time.”
Riley’s smirk falters—just a flicker—but enough to make it worth it. He leans back like he’s unbothered, but the tight set of his jaw says otherwise.
Coach Holt barrels in, voice like a war drum. “Five minutes! Move your asses or I’ll move them for you.”
That’s the cue. The room erupts into organized chaos—helmets snapped on, sticks grabbed, skates thudding against rubber flooring.
I slow my pace on purpose. Let the pack surge ahead.
Cal fumbles with his jersey, shaking hands missing the head hole on the first try. No one helps.
No one ever does.
He finally gets it on, but he’s trembling.
And it’s not the cold.
I look away again.
He’s not mine to save.
I lace up last, boots tight enough to cut off circulation. I like the pressure. Like the silence of it.
Lace. Loop. Knot. Repeat.
As I rise, the overhead lights flicker slightly, humming against the thump of blood in my ears.
My feet carry me toward the tunnel like they remember something my brain’s trying to forget.
It’s just practice. Just drills.
But my spine is a loaded spring. My hands won’t unclench, my chest too tight to fully breathe.
Sloane’s name flashes across the back of my eyes like a warning label.
