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A whistle blew somewhere behind me. The announcer called out Princeton’s starting lineup, followed by ours. All the nonstarters left the ice, and the rest of us skated over to the center and put ourselves in formation.
I gripped my stick tightly as the referee spoke to us, wishing my mind wasn’t still laser-focused on Sienna. I just couldn’t shake it. Was it really her? If so, what the fuck was she doing at one of my games? Hadn’t she wrecked my life enough the first time around?
Beyond that… wasn’t she terrified of what I might do to her if I ever saw her again? I would be if I were her.
Echoes of her cries and screams played in my head over and over as I pictured her wide, petrified green eyes on mine. Her presence was clinging to me like a shadow. Even as the arena roared with excitement, I felt completely detached from it all, barely even registering the sound.
My mind was so far away from reality that I almost missed the puck drop. Shit. Adrenaline surged through my veins again, and I quickly took control and snapped it over to my left wing, Keegan Reddick. He sent it to our right wing, Todd Laurier, who deftly swept it back over to me as I zoomed down the ice. I took it and weaved around a defenseman before trying to send it back over to Keegan, who had moved into the perfect open spot near the crease. Unfortunately, my movements were sluggish and my timing was totally off, resulting in me turning over the puck.
“Fuck,” I muttered to myself as the Tigers shot it back down the ice, taking it into their offensive zone.
This wasn’t like me. I never played this badly. Not even when I was a kid.
My lungs burned from exertion as I trudged off the ice for the line change. A few of my teammates cast concerned glances my way, probably trying to decipher what was going on with me tonight. They were used to me dominating the ice, not fucking up every single play like a total amateur.
My next shift was no better. Doubts kept creeping in as the internal battle intensified, eroding my confidence. My passes lacked their usual precision. My reaction times were slower. It felt like I was skating through fucking molasses.
I tried to break off the mental shackles, but Sienna’s face kept flashing in my head. Every time it happened, my hands or feet betrayed me, fumbling the puck or messing something else up as my usually-sharp instincts abandoned me.
When it was time for the next line change, I briefly glanced over at Sienna’s empty seat. Searing anger flashed through me like lightning. This was her fault. Her showing up tonight had thrown me off my game entirely, turning me into a bumbling idiot.
But even as it occurred to me, I knew I was just making excuses. It was my fault. I should be better than this. Stronger. I shouldn’t let this shit affect me so much.
After the first period was over, leaving the game tied at 0-0, I headed to the locker room, dropped my gloves, and sagged on a bench. Coach Mikkelsen headed over to me, rugged face painted with an expression of confusion and annoyance.
“You’re off your game tonight, Cole,” he said, icy blue eyes narrowing.
“I know.” I rubbed my brow. “I’ll get a handle on it.”
He scoffed. “The way things have been going, I suspect you wouldn’t even be able to handle a beach ball out there.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I’ll pick it up.”
“You better, or I might have to reconsider the starting lineup for the season. I’ve seen toddlers crawl across the ice faster than whatever the hell you’ve been doing out there.”
My lips tightened into a grim slash, and I nodded curtly. I couldn’t argue—he was right. I was playing like shit.
He wouldn’t really knock me off the starting line, though. There was a good reason the Blades—along with a few other college teams— wanted to recruit me when they heard I was available, even after all the shit that went down in the spring of 2019. Before any of it happened, I was the number-one-ranked prospect for that year’s NHL draft, destined to soar to the top. That renown was ripped away from me after the lake house killings, but I was building it back now, one game at a time.
The second period started. I tried my best to concentrate and channel my rage into the game, but my first shot slid wide. Fuck. I was still letting Sienna’s little visit affect my performance. Letting her control my every movement with her haunting presence.
As I zipped down the ice again, one of the Tigers followed closely. Number forty-two. He suddenly zoomed forward to cut me off and shoved me right into the boards, sending a burst of pain down my left shoulder and arm.
“What the fuck?” My eyes narrowed on him as I waited for the referee to blow the whistle and announce the penalty.
“Chill, man. It was just an accident,” the guy said with a shit-eating grin on his face that made it abundantly clear that it was actually fully intentional. He turned away and dipped his chin toward the ice before adding something under his breath. “Unlike that shit you did out in Michigan.”
My anger surged. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
Nostrils flaring, I dropped my gloves and wrenched off my helmet. Forty-two did the same, smarmy smile growing wider. I could sense the crowd holding their collective breath around us, anticipation hanging thick in the air as they waited for us to go for each other’s throats.
“You really wanna do this?” he asked, eyes locked on me with an unyielding intensity.
I matched his gaze with a determined glare. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”
Before he had a chance to say anything else, I clocked him right in the jaw. He retaliated swiftly, launching a torrent of rapid punches aimed at my face. Undeterred, I smashed him right back, fueled by sheer rage.
