Page 127 of Power Play
Next to me, Ollie wheezes out a breathless laugh. “I think heisthe coffee, and he gives me heart palpitations.”
“Less talking, more skating!” Jonno shouts. He’s got a stopwatch in hand and absolutely no soul in his eyes today.
We’re doing suicides across the width of the rink, over and over again. Like it’s not a Tuesday morning in the middle of the season, and we didn’t already give everything we had in the last game.
“This is punishment,” Jacko grunts between strides. “Has to be. Some kind of karmic retribution for all thoseBake Offepisodes I pirated.”
I bark out a laugh, which is a mistake because I choke on my own spit and nearly trip over my skates.
By the fifth round of suicides, we’re all reduced to grunts and sweat-soaked jerseys. Coach watches like a hawk, pacing behind Jonno, his expression unrelenting.
“Push harder!” he shouts. “You think the playoffs are gonna go easy on you? You want a spot on the top line? Earn it!”
Ollie groans. “I don’t even want a top line. I want atoe tag. Just bury me under the Zamboni and be done with it.”
I laugh again despite myself. This is hell, butit’s familiar. And right now, the grind is the only thing that makes sense. Because everything else, Sophie, the breakup, the silence that follows every voice note I send, is a mess I can’t fix. But here, in this rink, I can skate until I can’t feel anything but lactic acid and hate.
After training, the locker room smells of sweat, blood, and despair. The good stuff.
I peel off my shirt, collapsing onto the bench with a grunt. Jacko tosses me a protein bar like we’re on some kind of survival show.
“You’re welcome, sunshine,” he says. “Made it myself. Oatmeal, chocolate chips, love, and a sprinkle of bitterness.”
“I taste the bitterness,” I mutter with my mouth full. “Pairs well with regret.”
“Speaking of,” Dylan says from across the room, towel slung around his neck. “You coming tonight?”
“The pub?”
He nods. “Team’s heading down after dinner. Mia’s coming too.”
My heart lurches at the mention of her. Not Mia, she’s great, but what she represents. The bridge to Sophie. The one I might’ve burned to ash.
“Yeah,” I say eventually. “I’ll be there.”
The pub is already buzzing by the time I walk in. It’s warm and loud, full of that end-of-training euphoria where everyone smells slightly better than they did a few hours ago and are three pints deep into forgetting their legs hurt.
Jacko’s at the bar chatting with a couple of regulars, probably regaling them with tales of his secret cinnamon bun recipe. Ollie waves me over from a booth, cheeks flushed, beer in hand.
“Murph!” he yells. “Took you long enough. I saved you a seat. And by saved, I mean I threatened to lick it so no one else would take it.”
“Nice to know some things in life are consistent,” I say, dropping into the chair beside him.
“I do what I can.”
Dylan slides in opposite me, pint in hand, looking a little more relaxed than usual. Mia’s standing nearby, deep in conversation with Jonno about God knows what. Probably player recovery or cryo chambers or how best to torture us all.
“Alright?” I ask him, nodding toward Mia.
“She’s good,” he says. Then looks at me as though he’s working up to something. “Look, I’ve been thinking about everything. About you. Sophie. The photos.”
I go quiet.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” he says slowly. “Didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But we’ve all been where you are. Messed things up with someone who mattered and couldn’t figure out how to claw it back. And I can see it in your face, man. You didn’t do what everyone thinks you did.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Thanks,” I say, voice low.
