Page 63 of Holiday Interference
The locker room falls into its usual chaos—gloves slapping against the benches, sticks clacking, tape ripping in short bursts.
But under all of it, I feel brittle. Like I’ve been scraped raw and didn’t notice until now.
Coach barks out that we’ve got ten to hit the ice.
Standing, I grab my stick and force my feet to move.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked right before she left—hair still messy from my pillow, lips a little pink from all the things we didn’t say.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t hesitate. She just walked away like it was easy.
Maybe it was for her.
But for me?
It feels like getting benched in a game I didn’t even realize I was losing.
The feeling stays with me out on the ice, dragging me down like all the other times anyone left me.
My feet move, but I’m slow and the puck slips off my blade like it doesn’t want to be here either.
Shot goes wide again.
Not even close.
The thud echoes off the boards as it hits the glass behind the net, and my stomach turns with it—tight and sour.
I skate after it, not fast enough, lungs dragging in cold air that tastes like rubber and regret.
“Jesus, rookie,” Riley calls out as he skates past me. “You forget which end of the stick to use?”
I don’t answer. My jaw’s too tight, and my chest’s too full of shit I can’t name.
But it’s not about the shot. Not really.
The next drill’s already loading. A half-ice triangle passing pattern with a slapshot finish.
I cycle in. My shoulders are stiff, and my stick grip is too rigid. The puck jumps when I catch it, and I almost overcorrect.
My boots skid slightly on the turn, just enough for me to lose rhythm.
Slapshot sails off the heel of my stick, barely reaching the goalie.
“Damn,” Finn laughs from the blue line. “Someone get the kid a nap and a hug.”
My whole body flushes, hot under the pads. Sweat collects under my helmet and trickles down my back.
It’s not the hard kind of burn; this is frustration. Humiliation.
“Maybe he needs to get laid,” Riley says, laughing. “Or maybe he did, and now he’s all emotionally wrecked.”
Finn smirks when he bumps my shoulder during the next drill, making my stomach clench.
Maddox—the one guy whose opinion I respect the most—hasn’t said a word.
I miss another pass. The puck ricochets off my stick and clatters into the corner.
“Reid!” one of the assistant coaches barks. “Eyes up!”
