He could’ve gone to the private fitness center on the top floor, but other tenants had access to it, and Jett wasn’t in the mood to make small talk or risk awkward stares. Not today. Not when the tension in his chest hadn’t fully loosened.
Inside the homegym, he plugged his phone into the dock, letting his favourite playlist fill the room with the familiar pulse of bass and melody. It helped—just a little. He rolled his shoulders and started his warm-up stretches, breathing through the stiffness in his side. The pain was sharp whenever he twisted too far, a residual ache that hadn’t quite faded from the last game. Still, he welcomed it. Pain was something tangible. Understandable. He could work through pain. He was a hockey player—bruises came with the territory.
After a full hour of pushing himself on the treadmill—legs pounding, lungs burning, sweat dripping from his temples—he finally slowed to a walk. His heart thundered in his chest, and his body buzzed with the electric hum of exertion.
He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, then walked over to the mirrored wall and stared at himself.
Tousled blond hair stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling with each breath. He didn’t look broken. His face was the same. Still sharp, still young. Still…him.
He looked fine.
He was fine.
He told himself that again, as if saying it enough times could make it true.
But his jaw was clenched. And behind his eyes, something flickered. He didn’t look away. He held his own gaze and tried to believe it.
He was fine.
He had to be.
Jett finished his water and left, not stopping to turn the lights off in his haste. He was at the front door and tugging his sneakers on before his father could make another comment.
“Jett—”
He pocketed his keys and closed the door behind him, sprinting to the elevator.
Harrison was at the practice rink with the team like he had been all week, so Jett had a destination in mind. He could put on his skates and step back into the role he was born to do, and maybe that would trigger something inside him.
He understoodthat he was manic right now, but maybe this was the answer. Put everything behind and focus on hockey—focus on the space between the puck and the net—nothing else.
Harrison had been carpooling with Ryan, so the car was parked in the underground lot. He could have asked the staff to bring it to the front, but this was easier—less crowded.
Jett got in his car and jammed the key in the ignition, barely remembering to put his seat belt on before he was peeling out of the parking lot.
The sun touched him for the first time in weeks, and he fumbled for his sunglasses so he could see where he was going. There was no one around, no one lying in wait for him to escape his home. Traffic was light, and no one recognized him or tried to approach during red lights.
His pulse was booming in his ears, and he felt like puking, but he wasdoing it.
The rink was the true challenge. There were a lot of people around, all busy doing their own thing, but they stopped the second they saw Jett walking toward them.
Jett knew he looked dishevelled in his sweaty joggers and shirt, but they were acting like they had spotted a ghost. He ignored them, making a beeline for the changing room where his gear was kept. All the tension would disappear when he hit the ice; he just had to make it there.
“Fraser?”
Jett turned and saw Danny coming out of the physio room, looking startled. He must have seen him walk by through the glass walls of the hallway.
Jett politely took his sunglasses off and beamed. “Hey, I’m here for practice. I promise I’ll go easy.”
Danny gave a slow nod and did his best impression of a smile. “Alright. I’ll go tell Coach what’s going on while you get changed.”
Jett saluted him and continued his fast walk toward the safety of the locker room. He was determined not to get stopped by anyone else so that he didn’t have to watch their awkward reactions.
His cubicle was pristine and untouched, and his gear was sorted perfectly for him. He changed into appropriate sportswear and geared up,feeling settled in his skin as he tied his skates and grabbed his stick on his way to the rink.
He could already see Coach Adams and Danny discussing something quietly on the opposite side of the rink. Coach’s expression was pinched as he shook his head at whatever Danny was telling him.
Whatever. Danny wasn’t his therapist, so it’s not like he could use his physio degree to make an excuse to keep him off the ice.
