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And he’s not wrong. The pass was shit and would have easily been turned over.

I skate toward the bench, only stopping when LaBlanc pushes in front of me on his skates and grabs hold of my jersey.

“Pathetic,” LaBlanc sneers in my ear, before letting go of the fabric with a light jerk.

I shove away from him, stumbling into the glass with exhaustion. And I hate that my knee-jerk reaction is to look to Harris, like he might come swooping in to help. His eyes are on me, brows bunched together, but he doesn’t move.

He waits until I make it to him, while LaBlanc runs Holden through the same quick drill.

“Hey,” Harris offers, a deep set to his frown. Almost like concern, though I don’t let it comfort me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I’m breathing hard and trying to keep the vomit in my throat. “Just tired.”

Harris nods and folds his arms gently across his chest. “I’ll tell LaBlanc we’re done for the night.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I do,” he says. I don’t argue, but I don’t thank him either. “He pushes you hard, huh? Was he like that when you were a kid too?”

I don’t say anything for a moment, biting hard on my lip, tongue tracing the slip of a scar still there. Not one most would see with the naked eye, but I can feel it. I’m always aware of it.

What would Harris say if he knew two of the scars littering my face were from LaBlanc?

“Yeah, he’s pretty much the same.” Only without the carrot he used to dangle in front of my face in the form of his only daughter.

Harris nods and lays a palm on my shoulder with a light squeeze. “I’ll see you at home then,” he says before standing and heading out with a wave to LaBlanc.

There’s a pause then, a moment where I’m sure LaBlanc will let us leave—before his whistle sounds for Holden to stop his drill.

“Harris says to let you lot go for the night,” he shouts, beckoning me back over with his hand. I skate slowly—as slow as I can manage, before his austere face turns to me only. “But after Toren’s abysmal performance at the home game, we need another thirty.”

Holden groans and I stiffen.

“Complaints, Dougherty?”

“No,” he whispers. “All fine and dandy.” There’s a comfort in knowing Holden’s snark hasn’t left him.

So, we start again.

• • •

“I think that’s good for tonight,” LaBlanc offers sweetly. He checks something on his phone before nodding at us—where we’re breathing too hard, slumped half against the boards, a pressure cut on my cheek from where I rammed the glass after tripping myself up—and leaving through the tunnel.

Holden and I don’t talk as we head to the locker rooms and shower, still just trying to catch our breath. We don’t talk as we dress, still slowing our heart rates down. He waits for me to stick something over the cut on my cheek—it’s light, doesn’t need much to heal, but I can see the frustrated look on my defensive partner’s face as he looks at it again.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, pup,” I say casually, like it might disarm some of his worry. “All good.”

He lets it go, grabbing both of our coats as I reach for my phone out of my bag.

“Did you still want to grab food—”

Holden’s voice fades entirely as I look at the three missed calls from Paloma Blake.

I close my eyes tightly and breathe slowly, holding my finger toward Holden as I redial her.

She answers on the first ring, voice whisper-quiet.