Page 110 of Double Puck

I skate away before either of them can vote on a response, but before I get far enough to reset the anger brewing inside me, Coach's whistle pulls us all to center ice.

We circle up, sticks resting across our knees, helmets tipped back. Pete stands beside Coach with his iPad, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Good session," Coach says. "Tomorrow's simple. We play our game, we don't chase theirs. Vegas wants to run. We don't run with them."

He walks through the plan. Matchups. Special teams. Declan's line takes the top unit. Second power play gets a shuffle. It's our standard road-game stuff, and I'm nodding along, remembering where I fit into all of it.

"Penalty kill stays the same," Coach continues. "Forecheck adjustments — Pete's got clips for tonight's video session when we get back. And now, the lineup." He glances at the iPad. "We're going in with one change for tomorrow. Beck… you're gonna sit this one out."

Huh.

I actually look around. Like there's another Beck here. Like maybe we signed one this afternoon and this has nothing to do with me.

But every set of eyes has turned to face me, burning into my fucking soul.

"Wait." My voice comes out weird. "What?"

Coach's expression tightens. "With everything happening around the roster right now, management wants a look at the line-up without you in it. See what the combinations look like, where the gaps are, what changes." He pauses. "It's part of the evaluation process, Beck. Nothing's been decided."

For a second, I just stare at him.

They want to see if the team works without me?

Somehow, that's worse.

"You'll sit this one out, kid. I've got you down as a healthy scratch," Coach repeats, like we're already moving on. "Sit up with the crew in the press box tomorrow. We'll talk after video. Alright — showers, bus leaves in thirty."

The circle breaks apart around me, but I don't move.

A healthy scratch?

What the fuck even is that?

I flew here with the team. I trained twice a day all week. I ate Declan's labeled quinoa. I made the boring play, the right play, twice in a row, ten minutes ago, on this exact sheet of ice.

And I'm watching from the press box in a suit?

The guys skate past me as a couple of gloves tap my shin pads, murmurs of sorry, brother, tough one, but it all lands like sound underwater.

Then I look at the bench.

Darcy's sitting right there behind the glass, tablet in her lap, and I look at her because she's the one person in this building who looks at me like I'm not a mistake with skates on.

But this time, she doesn't smile.

She doesn't make everything okay like I told Poppy she did.

She looks away. Fast.

And everything clicks into place with a sick, quiet little snap.

I've got a very important report to get ready.

Colin's calls all week. Her going stiff at the lookout. The question she dodged on the pier. Her whole "professional capacity" routine since we boarded the bus this morning.

She knew.

She sat six rows ahead of me on that jet, knowing I wouldn't be playing for my career tomorrow night. She took her key card and let me flirt with her at the check-in desk, knowing they were about to sit me down in front of the whole team and rip my fucking heart from my chest.