I repeat it like a mantra as I step onto the ice.
Practice is a disaster.
Coach Donovan Reynolds is running line drills—the same ones we’ve done a thousand times. He played twelve years in the league before his knees gave out, and now he channels all that frustrated energy into making our lives miserable. Simple stuff, stay in position, move the puck, communicate. Basic fundamentals that we should be able to do in our sleep.
Instead, we look like a peewee team on their first day.
Passes go wide. Positioning is sloppy. Two guys nearly collide because neither one is paying attention to where they’re supposed to be.
“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Coach’s voice echoes across the rink. “My grandmother could skate better than this, and she’s been dead for fifteen years!”
We line up again, run the drill again, screw it up again.
I’m not immune. My timing is off; my head is somewhere else. I keep thinking about the locker room conversation. About the way they talked about her like she was entertainment instead of a person.
About the way she looked when she asked if I enjoyed the show.
The bitterness in her voice. The crack in her composure.
“Banks! You planning to join us today, or should I just scratch you from the lineup?”
I snap back to attention. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn’t win games.” He blows his whistle. “Again. From the top. And this time, try to remember you’re professional hockey players, not a bunch of ballerinas.”
We run the drill again. It’s marginally better. Not good, but better.
By the time practice ends, everyone is exhausted and irritable. Coach dismisses us with a warning that tomorrow better be different, or we’re running suicides until someone pukes.
I linger on the ice after everyone else heads in, taking slow laps to cool down. My shoulder aches—it always aches these days—and my head is full of noise I can’t quiet.
The team is distracted. That’s the problem. They’re so busy thinking about the yoga instructor that they can’t focus on their actual jobs.
And the yoga instructor is so busy dealing with their bullshit that she can’t focus on hers.
It’s affecting everyone. It’s affecting the team. We have a playoff push coming up, and we’re moving across the ice like we’ve never seen a puck before.
Someone needs to do something.
Not me, obviously. But someone.
I finally head in, strip off my gear, and head to the showers. The hot water helps loosen my shoulder, and I stay under the spray longer than I should, letting the steam clear my head.
By the time I’m dressed and heading for the exit, the facility is quieter. Most of the guys have already left. I’m always thinking about food—and whether I have time to stop somewhere before my afternoon workout—when I see them.
Winnie and Grayson.
She runs yoga sessions four days a week, and we’re all supposed to attend at least one. Most guys treat it like a joke—an excuse to show up and stare. Right now she’s in the hallway near the training room, and Grayson’s leaning against the wall, blocking her path, that same smug expression on his face. She’s got her arms crossed, her bag over her shoulder, clearly trying to leave.
I slow down, stopping near the water fountain, pretending to get a drink.
“Come on, just one drink,” Grayson is saying. “What’s the harm?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Her voice is polite. Professional. But there’s an edge underneath it.
“Why not? We’re both adults. We’re both single. I’m a good time, I promise.”
“I’m sure you are. But I’m not interested.”
