Page 5 of Breakaway Daddies

It’s peaceful in a way that resonates with me. I’ve always loved the way the arena feels at this time: quiet, steady, holding its breath for the next big moment to unfold.

Rolling my shoulders, I feel the dull ache from hunching over players all day, the tension slowly easing.

“Alright, you’re good to go,” I say, giving his taped leg a reassuring, gentle pat before stepping back, allowing him to get up and leave.

He rises from the bench, flexing his knee carefully to test the freshly applied athletic tape. “Thanks, Jinx. You’re the best.”

My hand falls to my hip as I flash him a grin. “I know,” I reply, with a playful confidence.

He chuckles as he makes his way toward the door, but halts momentarily. “Hey, just to be sure—stretches before and after practice, right?”

“Yes,” I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest with a knowing look. “And if you skip them, I will know, and so will you.” There’s a hint of menacing tease in my tone.

He laughs heartily, giving me a friendly wave as he strolls down the brightly lit hallway, his footsteps echoing until they fade away.

I let my gaze drift to the wall clock, a wash of relief cascading over me.

That was my last client of the day, which means I can actually go home at a reasonable hour for once. I stretch my arms overhead, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles loosening, and let out a groan of relief as my spine gives a series of satisfying pops.

I can finally finish that true-crime series I’ve been binging and maybe get a good chunk of my scarf done.

I duck beneath the desk to retrieve my worn, navy blue backpack, unzipping it just enough to slip in the almost-finished crochet project. The scarf, a complex weave of black and red yarn, twists into an intricate pattern I began on a whim during a weekend of boredom.

The repetition and rhythm of working with my hands offer a tactile escape from the mindless scroll of my phone, especially when I should be winding down for the night.

Reaching into the bag again, I pull out my black headphones, the cushioned ear cups still warm from earlier use. I slide them over my head and tap play on my phone.

Instantly, heavy guitar riffs crash into my ears, the deep bass thrumming through my skull and drowning out the world. Just what I need.

I fall into my end-of-day routine, moving on autopilot as I wipe down the desk’s smooth surface, organize my scattered notes into neat piles, and ensure all my equipment is properly stowed away.

The sequence is ingrained in me, a series of actions I can perform while letting the driving beat of the music take over my thoughts.

Finally, I stand in the doorway of my office, taking in the familiar, meticulously organized environment. The bookshelves are crammed with textbooks and physical therapy manuals, their spines forming a tidy mosaic.

Meanwhile, punk rock posters featuring snarling bands and vibrant local artwork splatter the walls, injecting a delightful sense of chaos amidst the order.

I flick off the light and step into the hallway, the harsh overhead lights making my eyes squint. The soft click of the lock echoes behind me as I secure the office door, signaling the end of another day.

As I make my way toward the exit, the clang of my footsteps echoes in the empty corridor, and my thoughts drift back to the rink last night. I had stayed late, hunched over my desk, eyes straining as I completed the last of the reports.

Through the office window, I’d spotted a lone figure gliding across the ice. Even from a distance, I could discern the rhythmic grace of his movements. Each stride powerful yet effortless, his skates carving perfect arcs against the frozen surface.

He was undeniably attractive, with a chiseled jawline and a confident demeanor that matched his athletic prowess.

Not that it really narrows it down much—this whole team seems like a lineup of men sculpted by the gods.

I chuckle, shaking my head as I remind myself of the boundaries I’ve set. Work is work. Crossing that line with players is like lighting a match in a gas tank—it’s bound to explode and ruin everything I’ve worked for.

Still, I allow myself a fleeting moment of fantasy, imagining what it would be like to abandon my self-imposed rules, to feel a spark of excitement and passion once more. But just as quickly, I extinguish the thought, casting it into the shadows of my mind.

Memories of my past relationships flood in, reminders of the wild nights and chaotic days spent with guys who were just as adrift as I was during my partying years.

We were all caught in a whirlwind of bad decisions and temporary highs. I fought my way out of that cycle, but navigating the dating world as a sober person?

That feels like an entirely new challenge—one I’m not sure how to even begin to tackle.

As I stroll toward the lobby, I thumb through my phone, seeking a change in tempo: a song with a more laid-back vibe. The aggressive heavy metal gives way to the soothing, melodic strums of an alternative rock tune that has always resonated with me.

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