Page 103 of Blades Out
I reached the boards and stopped hard, sending ice chips flying.
Coach Barrett glanced my way from across the rink. Studied me for a beat too long. I felt the weight of his assessment—twenty years of reading players and coaches, knowing when someone's head wasn't in the game.
I looked away first.
"Line up for transition drills," I called out, voice flat and commanding.
The team obeyed without question. They always did. I was good at this part—the structure, the discipline, the cold precision that made great players better.
What I wasn't good at was the mess inside my head. The war between what I wanted and what was right. Between desire and duty. Between the man I'd tried to become and the one who'd pinned Olivia Bennett against a wall and kissed her like she was oxygen.
Wyatt fumbled a pass. Easy mistake, barely worth noting.
"Focus," I bit out. "That pass should be automatic."
He blinked, startled by my tone. "Yes, Coach."
The other coaches exchanged looks. Even the players went quieter, skating with extra care.
I knew I was being an asshole. Knew my control was fraying at the edges, bleeding into my work where it had no business being.
But I couldn't stop it.
Because every time I tried to focus, I saw her. Felt her. Wanted her with an intensity that bordered on madness.
I gripped my stick tighter and barked another instruction. Told myself I was fine. Knew I was lying.
Practice ended with the sharp blast of Barrett's whistle. Players peeled off the ice in clusters, voices echoing as they disappeared into the tunnel. Skate blades scraped against rubber mats. Equipment bags thumped. The usual post-practice noise faded gradually until only silence remained.
I stayed on the ice, running through cleanup routines I didn't need to do. Stacking cones. Straightening nets. Anything to delay returning to the locker room, to the café hallway, to anywhere I might cross paths with her.
"Hey."
I turned.
Maddox stood near center ice, stick in hand, watching me with that sharp-eyed intensity that made him dangerous on the ice and impossible to fool off it.
"Need help with my shot," he said.
I stared at him. Nicholas Maddox—one of the league's top scorers, lethal accuracy, could pick corners in his sleep—needed help with his shot like I needed skating lessons.
He didn't move. Just waited, shoulders loose, expression unreadable.
Privacy, then. Whatever this was, he didn't want an audience.
I grabbed a bucket of pucks and skated toward him without a word. Set the bucket down harder than necessary. Ice chips scattered.
"What are you working on?" My voice came out flat, professional. Coach mode firmly in place.
Maddox didn't pick up his stick. "You tell me."
I met his eyes. "Your shot's fine."
"Yeah. It is." He tilted his head slightly. "So why are you acting like you want to murder everyone on the ice today?"
Tension locked my jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." No heat in the word. Just fact. "You've been wound tighter than a tripwire all week. Today was worse."
