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I strip out of my street clothes in the quiet locker room, the familiar routine settling over me like muscle memory. Tape goes around my socks, pads strap into place, laces pull tight. The weight of the gear grounds me, transforms me back into the player everyone expects on the ice.

Bishop's already on the ice when I make my way out of the tunnel. He eyes me with that perpetual smirk. "Thought you weren't coming."

"Storms don’t stop me, just slowed me down."

"Look a bit tired."

I ignore him and push through to the ice.

The cold hits clean and sharp. I take my first lap slow, letting my body wake up, finding the edges. Snow blankets the world outside, but in here, the ice is perfect. Smooth. Predictable. I push into speed, thighs burning as I lengthen my stride.

Jax flies past me on the turn, showboating. "Getting slow, old man."

I accelerate, cut him off at center ice, and flip him of without looking back.

Beau laughs from the boards. "He's got you there, Jax."

We fall into warm-ups. Stretches, crossovers, figure eights. I grab a puck and work it through my stick, feeling the familiar rhythm. Snap it against the boards. Retrieve. Again. The sound echoes through the empty arena—sharp cracks that cut through thought.

Except my thoughts won't stay cut.

Anna Winterfield’s pristine pussy, tight and⁠—

"Rez!"

Coach's voice snaps me back. I've missed the pass. The puck skitters past my stick and into the corner.

"The fuck you looking at?" Jax calls as he retrieves it.

"Your ugly face, apparently."

Bishop skates past, tapping my shin pad with his stick. "Focus."

I do. We run passing drills, two-on-ones, breakout patterns. My body knows this. Knows where to be, how to read the developing play, when to push and when to hold. But I'm working harder than usual to stay present, to keep my attention locked on the ice instead of drifting north to Lake Forest.

We move into shooting drills. I line up, wait my turn, then explode toward the net. Slap shot, top corner. The goalie doesn't move.

"Lucky," Beau mutters behind me.

"Skill," I correct.

"Bullshit."

Next shot goes wide. Beau crows. "What'd I say?"

"One miss. You want to compare stats?"

"I want you to stop embarrassing yourself."

I retrieve the puck and fire it at his skates. He jumps back, laughing, and the rhythm starts to feel right again. Competitive. Clean. This is what I know. What I'm good at. No confusion, no wondering what someone's thinking or whether I've said the wrong thing.

Just speed and skill and the satisfaction of doing something well.

We run three-on-threes. Then five-on-fives. Conditioning drills that leave everyone gasping. I push through, legs screaming, lungs burning, but the competition kicks in and I'm fully here now. Focused. Present. Reading the ice, anticipating passes, finding space where there shouldn't be any.

The storm thickens outside the high windows. Snow falls so heavy it blurs the glass.

Coach blows the whistle. We skate to center ice, breathing hard, steam rising off our gear.