Page 36 of The Grumpy Defenseman
Her face changed, and recognition was worse than anger.
Brick straightened. His eyes went flat.
“Easy, McKinney.”
Across the rink, Colt lowered his water bottle without lifting it to his mouth. Sully held his whistle and did not blow it. Ryan went still at center ice, captain instincts locking onto the room before anyone else moved. Finn, halfway through a stretch along the boards, froze with one knee bent and all that rookie fire trapped behind his teeth.
I skated away before I could see the damage settle.
The instant the words left my mouth, I knew the timing was wrong and the target was worse.
Practice resumed around me. Drills and whistles. The mechanical continuation of a routine that did not pause for personaldisasters.
I ran every drill at full speed and felt nothing.
Near the end of practice, during a line change, Sully caught my eye from the bench and gave one sharp nod toward the boards.
I skated over.
He waited until I was close enough that no one else could hear him.
“Whatever that was earlier, don’t do it again. Not in my room.” His voice was quiet, the way coaches said things they did not want the rest of the room to overhear. “I know you’ve got weight on you. The room knows too. But the room doesn’t get to be the place you set it down. Find another place.”
He held my gaze for half a second, then turned back toward the drill.
I pushed off from the boards and rejoined the rotation.
Samantha
The rink went quiet, and I kept my camera up.
I shot the rest of practice through a lens that had never felt heavier.
I did not look at Evan McKinney. Not once.
Ryan skated past my position near the end, his expression carrying a question he was too smart to ask out loud. I shook my head, a small definitive gesture, and he nodded and kept moving.
Practice ended. I packed with steady hands and walked out wearing professional neutrality like armor.
The parking lot was bright. The car was hot. I got in, closed the door, and sat there.
One breath.
Two.
On the third breath, something behind my sternum cracked.
He had taken the nickname I gave him, a small affectionate thing, and used it to push me away in front of everyone.
I recognized the shape of it: something offered freely, turned public in a room full of witnesses. Different weapon. Samearchitecture.
For letting him past the perimeter I had built after Case Whitfield. Only to watch him choose the nearest target when he needed somewhere to put the hurt.
The nearest target had been me.
I started the engine and pulled out without checking my mirrors.
I made it three blocks before I reached for my phone.
