Page 68 of Shattered On Ice

“Wake up, big guy!” Rook chirps, voice carrying over the scrape of skates. “You're not in the frozen tundra anymore. The puck actually moves down here!”

It's a standard Rook greeting, a friendly jab meant to invite a chirp back. But Wilder doesn't read it as friendly. He reacts just like he’s been threatened. His head snaps around, broad shoulders going impossibly stiff. In that second of lost focus, he catches his outside edge on the chewed-up ice. Wilder’s skates fly out from under him, sending the big man down hard, his massive frame sliding uncontrollably across the ice. He crashes, skates first, into the boards right where Josh, our equipment manager, has lined up the spare sticks. The impact sends twenty composite sticks clattering onto the ice in a booming, chaotic explosion of fiberglass and tape.

The entire arena seems to pause before the team mercilessly erupts.

“Oh, yeah, real smooth!” Nico yells, his mouth firing off instantly as he bangs his stick on the ice. “Fucking chaos out here already. What’s up, Chaos?”

“Hey, Chaos! If you wanted to go down that hard on something, all you had to do was ask,” Chad howls, wolf-whistling before doubling over on his skates with a raucous laugh.

Davy skates past, his face carved from unyielding Russian stone, and casually taps the blade of his stick up into Chad’s groin. Chad lets out a high-pitched yelp, cutting his dirty jokes short as his knees hit the ice.

“Focus, idiot,” Davy mutters deadpan, not even looking back.

Wilder scrambles to his feet, ignoring the sticks scattered around his skates. Even from fifty feet away, I can see the dark, furious flush burning high on his cheeks. Rook skates over, chuckling, and holds out a gloved hand to offer a dab of camaraderie.

Wilder ignores the hand and smacks Rook’s stick away with a violent, echoing crack.

The laughter on the ice dies instantly. Rook blinks, his golden retriever grin faltering into genuine confusion. Wilder doesn't say a word. He turns his back, shoulders drawn up to his ears, and skates to the back of the drill line, radiating a suffocating, lethal anger.

My heart gives a heavy, empathetic thump against my chest. He didn't just fall, he was humiliated. Instead of letting the team pull him up and laugh it off, he’s terrified of looking weak, so he’s lashing out to protect himself.

The rest of practice is a downward spiral. The nickname Chaos sticks instantly, echoing from every corner of the ice, and with every shout, Wilder’s grip on his stick gets tighter. He’s drowning in his own head, completely dysregulated by the change in environment and perceived hostility.

He starts overcompensating. He misses a tape-to-tape pass because his hands are rigid with anxiety. In the next corner battle, instead of playing the puck, he head-hunts. He throws a brutal, heavy check on Chad during a non-contact drill, sending our loud-mouth winger crashing dangerously onto the ice.

“Hey, what the fuck, man!” Campbell shouts. Our notoriously hair-trigger enforcer doesn't tolerate anyone taking cheap shots at his forwards. Campbell skates in hard and shoves Wilder directly in the chest. “Keep your fucking hands off my wingers!”

Wilder shoves back, twice as hard, his eyes wild and defensive. “Keep your fucking head up, then!”

Rook is there in a flash. Normally, Rook and Campbell are a study in opposites—sunshine and absolute misery—that hate each other. But when it comes to defending the line, they merge into a terrifying, unified front. The two big defensemen bark back at Wilder, stepping into his space, completely unbothered by his size. Wilder is totally blind to the fact that this is just a team enforcing its own boundaries. He’s locked in a fight-or-flight response, and he’s explicitly chosen fight. It’s a gladiator battle to the death just waiting to happen.

Coach blows his whistle, breaking them up and yelling for laps.

As I skate down the ice, I watch Wilder. His jaw is clenched, chest heaving, eyes glaring a hole in the ice ahead of him. He is utterly alone in a sea of Hydras’ neon green jerseys.

I know that isolating, suffocating panic. I know what it feels like to be so convinced that everyone around you is an enemy waiting to exploit your weakness that you push them away before they get the chance. Montreal was a toxic wasteland under Benoit, and Wilder brought that survival instinct with him to Atlanta.

I lean into my edges, feeling the solid, grounding ice beneath my skates. I’m in a good place. My nervous system is regulated. I meet virtually with Dr. Glazeau every other week to maintain this clear headspace. I have Knight waiting for me at home, ready to cook me dinner. A handful of months ago, I was drowning on this very ice, and Rook dragged me to the surface.

It’s my turn to pull someone up.

Coach blows the final whistle. The ice clears out fast as the team heads for the showers, but Wilder stays on. He skates to the far boards and aggressively begins collecting pucks and launching them into a bucket. Every movement is sharp, defensive, and wound so tight he looks like he might shatter. Six months ago, I would have avoided him. I would have put my head down, terrified that his Montreal baggage would somehow expose mine. But I know what he’s feeling right now. I know the debilitating weight of being trapped in your own head, waiting for the next hit. He’s a cornered animal, and if I skate up on him fast, he’s going to bite.

I take a deep breath, pushing off the ice with a left stride, right stride to ground myself as I glide over without crowding him. I stay ten feet away, keeping my stick resting casually by my side, my posture entirely open and non-threatening. I wait for him to acknowledge me.

He turns, glaring at me, chest heaving under his practice jersey. “What? You got a nickname for me, too, Dumont?”

“No,” I say, keeping my voice low and even. “I’m just offering a clean slate.”

He scoffs. “Like I need that with your record.”

Ouch. I knew he might hold what happened with Benoit against me, but to hear him loudly proclaim that I have a bad track record hurts more than I expected.

“Look, Jameson, I know being traded mid-season is rough. But we’re wearing the same jersey now. It doesn't have to be like that. Let me take you to lunch.” I toss him a puck.

Wilder catches it, flipping the hunk of black rubber in his glove. He looks down at it, the flush returning to his cheeks. But this time, it’s not from humiliation; it’s surprise. “Yeah,” he mutters, a tiny fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Lunch sounds good.”

I take us to an out-of-the-way barbecue joint where we’re not likely to run into any hockey fans. Wilder should experience the South and Southern cooking as soon as possible, and Zinnia’s is the spot. Monty and Tucker introduced Knight and me to the place a few months back, and it’s quickly become a favorite for the fried green tomatoes, cherry-glazed short ribs, pulled pork sandwiches, and the mac and cheese you can stand a spoon in. It’s not exactly the mid-season approved dietary fare we should be eating, but comfort is demanded, and I’m not one to deny the healing properties of good food. No one can stay mad when you're full of peach cobbler and have the meat sweats.