Page 57 of Puck Sweat Love

“That’s game,” Lauder calls out. “Good challenge, gentlemen.”

I should feel satisfied.

I won the head-to-head, fair and square.

But Garcia’s reaction catches my attention. His face is twisted with rage as he skates to the bench, and he’s muttering under his breath. This kid doesn’t just want the starting job; he expects it. Feels entitled to it. And he’s not handling even this little setback well.

I file that observation away for later.

His entitlement might be something I can exploit later…

As we break for lunch, I settle at a table in the cafeteria with Stone and a few of the other vets, keeping to myself as I fuel up for the afternoon session. Garcia holds court at a table of rookies, laughing as he tells some story about the puck bunny he brought home last weekend. His laugh is loud, high-pitched, andloud, so loud I swear I can feel it giving me tinnitus in my right ear.

“Ignore him,” Stone advises around a mouthful of grilled chicken. “He’s compensating for getting shown up on the ice.”

“I know,” I say, stabbing at my salad. “But it’s not just him. Lauder and Hartley already have their minds made up. They’re with him, not me.”

Stone shakes his head. “It’s day two of camp, man. Lot of hockey left to play before opening night.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t ease the anxiety knot in my chest. This was supposed to be my redemption arc, my chance to prove that I’ve changed, that I’ve earned my way back. Instead, it feels like I’m trapped in an old story, one the people around me won’t let me escape, no matter how much I’ve changed.

The afternoon brings more of the same. During team drills, I’m consistently placed with the second and third lines, while Garcia works with the starters. When Lauder gives feedback, mine is always critical, focused on what I need to improve, while Garcia receives praise and encouragement.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable. The deck is stacked, and everyone can see it.

After a particularly intense scrimmage session, we move to the weight room for strength and conditioning. I’m at the squat rack, grinding through my third set, when I feel someone lurking nearby.

I rack the weights and turn to find Hartley watching me with that calculating look I’ve come to loathe.

“LiBassi,” he says with a nod. “Got a minute?”

I grab my towel, wiping sweat from my face. “Sure.”

He leads me to a quiet corner of the room, away from the rest of the team. Never a good sign.

“I wanted to touch base about what happened in the locker room this morning,” he begins. “Garcia mentioned there was some... tension.”

Of course he did. The little snake.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

Hartley studies me, his eyes cold. “Look, I know your history. And I know guys like you don’t change overnight.”

“Guys like me?” I repeat, a dangerous edge creeping into my voice.

“Addicts,” he says bluntly. “My brother-in-law was one. Always swore he was clean and had it under control. But he didn’t. Cost my sister her marriage and damn near broke her in the process.”

There it is. The real reason behind his hostility. Just like Stone said. This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with his own baggage.

“I’ve been clean for over two years,” I say evenly. “And I took a drug test yesterday. It was clear.”

Hartley looks unimpressed. “Good for you. But I know oxy only stays in the blood twenty-four hours, and you knew the test was coming. It’s going to take a few randomized screenings before you can hold those up as evidence.’

Evidence? What the fuck?

I suddenly feel like I’m on trial for a crime.

“Fine,” I say, even though it’s not fine. Not at all. “But I promise you, I’m too grateful for this chance to fuck it up. I’m not your brother-in-law, sir. I’m me. And not to put too fine a point on it, but I think I deserve the chance to be judged onmyperformance. Right here, right now. Not the past or bad experiences you’ve had with other people.”

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