Page 102 of Face Off
I swallow hard and glide across, unclipping my helmet as I reach him. He waits until Jonno’s out of earshot before speaking.
“You stuck to the plan,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t overdo it. That’s what I wanted to see.”
I nod, gripping my helmet so tight my knuckles pale.
Coach studies me for a long moment, then adds, “I know you’ve been worried. About your place here. About your contract.”
My heart skips a beat. My throat goes dry.
“You’ve given this club years of graft,” he continues, eyes steady on mine. “You’ve bled for it, fought for it, carried it on your shoulders when others couldn’t. One injury doesn’t wipe that out. You show me this kind of fight, keep your head down, keep building and you’re not on the chopping block. Not even close.”
The words land heavy, like a weight lifted and a new one strapped on at the same time. I want to believe him. God, I want to.
I nod again, sharper this time. “Yes, Coach.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder, firm, grounding. “Now, get off the ice before Jonno changes his mind about no suicides.”
A huff of laughter escapes me, thin but real. I push away, heading for the tunnel, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction.
I shove open the locker room door, helmet dangling from my hand. The place is mostly empty now, just the hum of the vents and Jacko sat on the bench with his skates half-laced, munching on something out of a Tupperware box like it’s perfectly normal to be eating mid-boot.
“You ever not have food on you?” I ask, dropping down beside him.
He grins around a mouthful. “Nope. Survival strategy. You never know when Murphy’ll nick your dinner, so you come prepared.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth tugs anyway. For a second, I just sit there, rolling my helmet between my hands, trying to get the words out without sounding like a kid. “Coach spoke to me.”
Jacko arches a brow, still chewing. “What about? Extra laps? Telling you to stop limping like an old man?”
I huff out a laugh. “No. He told me my contract’s not in danger. Said if I keep doing the work, keep my head down, I’m fine.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth, like I’m tempting fate by repeating them.
Jacko swallows, sets the Tupperware aside. “And?”
“And what?”
“And how do you feel, you idiot? That’s bloody huge.”
I shrug, staring at the floor. “Relieved. Terrified. Both. I’ve been so sure I’d lose everything. The ice, the team, her. All of it.”
Jacko leans back, stretching his long legs out. “Mate, listen. You’ve fought through worse than this. Remember when you broke your nose and still finished the period? You looked like Quasimodo in a helmet and still wouldn’t sit out. You’re not going anywhere.”
That drags a reluctant laugh out of me. “I did look like a horror show.”
“You still do, but we put up with you.” His grin widens. “Seriously though, if Coach says you’re safe, believe it. He doesn’t do pep talks. You’ve got your spot. Stop acting like the world’s about to kick you off the cliff.”
Something in my chest eases, just a notch. I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re a decent mate, you know that?”
He pretends to look horrified. “Don’t start getting soppy on me. I’ll bake you some biscuits later, that’s all the emotional labour I’m capable of.”
I laugh properly this time, the sound echoing off the empty lockers. Finally, it feels like I can breathe.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m sore, exhausted, but there’s no getting out of tonight. A team night, everyone crammed into Murphy and Sophie’s flat. A celebration, because somehow, against all odds, those two maniacs are engaged.
The place is chaos when Chloe and I walk in. Dylan’s already commandeered the sound system, Jacko’s balancing three trays of food like he’s still stress-baking, and Murphy’s trying to wrestle a bottle opener out of Finn’s hand. Sophie’s in the middle of it all, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they haven’t stuck that way.
“Oh, look,” she says when she spots us, her grin wicked. “The tragic lovers, back from exile.”
