Chapter 3
Practice the next morningwas a special kind of grind—the sort that left every muscle fiber screaming and every inhale tasting like cold, metallic iron.Coach was in one of his moods where nothing was fast enough, sharp enough, or tough enough.He barked orders, his voice hoarse, his face flushing the color of a penalty light.
"Again!"he snapped as we finished another brutal suicide drill, our breaths coming in ragged clouds."You want top-line ice time?Earn it!"
I pushed off the goal line, my legs burning, lungs raw.The puck felt like it was glued to my stick, a lead weight I had to force through the motions.Hockey was about control—of the ice, the puck, your own body.Today, I clung to that concept like a lifeline, hoping it would keep me from drowning in distraction.
Because on the other side of the glass, Henry Emerson was watching.
He stood near center ice, his suit immaculate, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the boards.The GM loitered a few feet behind him, pretending to check his phone but glancing at Henry every thirty seconds like a nervous intern.Henry didn't acknowledge him.His attention was a laser, fixed on the ice.
On me.
I tried to funnel every ounce of focus into the drill—keeping my head up, my passes crisp—but every stride felt heavier under the weight of his gaze.It wasn't obvious or intrusive; he wasn't staring holes through me.It was quieter, more potent than that—a constant, humming awareness at the edge of my vision, impossible to ignore.
"Yo, Holt!"Shay yelled as he sped past me, breaking my concentration."Eyes on the puck, not the billionaire!"
"Shut up!"I barked back, but a flush of heat crawled up my neck, betraying me.
We pushed through the rest of practice—line rushes, two-on-ones, a scrimmage that turned chippy when Felix decided to throw a borderline hit on a rookie.The sounds were the same as always: the sharp scrape of skates cutting into fresh ice, the clack of sticks, the shouted curses and calls from the coaches.It was the beautiful chaos I usually lived for.
Today, it was just white noise behind the steady, unnerving thrum of being watched.
When Coach finally blew the whistle and dismissed us to the showers, the locker room erupted with the usual end-of-practice racket.Someone cranked a speaker, blaring classic rock.Shay started mock-interviewing Felix about his "illegal hit," waving a water bottle like a microphone.
"Do you regret your actions?"Shay asked, pitching his voice into a news-anchor tenor.
Felix shrugged, playing along."Only that I didn't make it harder."
The room cracked up.I laughed too, grateful for the break in the tension, even if it couldn't completely erase the image of Henry Emerson, cool and detached, leaning against the glass.
By the time I’d shed my soaked gear and wrapped a towel around my waist to head for the showers, I imagined Henry was gone.Or so I thought.A wave of relief washed through me, cold and clear.
It vanished the second I stepped into the hallway.
He was there.
Leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets, as if the corridor had been personally designed just for him to occupy.The air between us shifted, thickening, quieting everything else down to a dull hum.For a wild heartbeat, I considered spinning on my heel and retreating back into the locker room.But that felt too much like surrender, and I wasn't ready to give him that victory.
"Charlie," he said.His voice was low, a smooth baritone that seemed to slide right under my skin.
"Mr.Emerson," I answered, clutching my towel and gear bag like a flimsy shield.
