Page 186 of Make the Play

The other guy groans from the ice, already nursing his mouth, but I don’t look at him again. I skate to the box like a ghost, ignoring the boos from the crowd and the disappointment bleeding from the bench.

My hand’s fucked. Split knuckles and red dripping through the tape, and I still don’t care.

Because she’s not here.

***

The locker room’s dead silent when I walk in.

No music or chirping, just the low hum of the vents and the wet drag of my skates across the tile. My gloves are still in the bin, and my tape’s soaked through. My hand is absolutely fucked. Everyone sees it, but no one says a word.

Coach is standing near the whiteboard, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for an excuse.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the bench in front of him. “Now.”

I don’t. I just stand there, blood still dripping from between my fingers, chest heaving.

“Fine.” He steps forward, voice low. “You wanna throw away a season because you’re off your game? You wanna take yourself out of the lineup completely?”

“I’m fine.”

He snorts. “You’re not even pretending anymore. You think I didn’t see you out there tonight? You were playing like someone handed you a fucking death wish.”

Someone across the room coughs, and the boys pretend to be going about their business. Jake stays stone silent, but I feel his eyes burning a hole into the side of my face.

“You’ve got one of the best contracts on this team,” Coach says, voice low and cutting. “You’ve got the ice time, the leadership expectations, and a goddamn Stanley Cup window opening in front of you.”

He takes a slow step toward me, eyes locked.

“And you’re out there playing like you’d rather get benched than pass the puck. So, I’ll ask you once. What the hell is going on?”

I clench my jaw but say nothing.

Another beat of silence passes, and then Harris, a dumb rookie, mutters under his breath, “Guess we all know who wears the pants in his relationship.”

I snap.

“Say that again,” I bite out, turning fast.

I lunge forward before the words have fully landed, rage hitting faster than a sniper. Jake shoves a forearm across my chest, hard, dragging me back fast.

“Not happening,” he growls under his breath. “Don’t make it worse.”

Harris mutters a half-assed apology, but I barely hear it.

Coach’s eyes don’t leave mine, and I can tell he’s not surprised I snapped. He’s watching and assessing. Clocking the tension in my fists, the wild behind my eyes, the way my whole body flinched the second Zoe’s name was even vaguely mentioned.

His jaw ticks once, and I can feel it—that shift in the air. He’s putting it together. The tension, Zoe’s absence, my unraveling.

His frown deepens. “She’s out with the flu, right?” he asks offhandedly, but his voice is razor sharp.

No one answers, not even Jake.

Coach glares at all of us, then drags a hand down his face before turning back to me.

“I told you back in pre-season,” he says, quieter now. “If she helps you settle, lock it in. But if you care about her—and I know you do—then get your head on straight. Because this?”

He gestures to my bleeding hand.

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