Page 23 of Wild Card 13

So I skated. Hard. Every drill. Every rep. Every sprint.

I hit somebody during corner retrievals hard enough to send a message I didn’t fully understand myself.

The trainers yelled about keeping contact controlled.

Cam yelled louder.

Somewhere behind me Marco muttered, “Jesus Christ, Burns,” after I stapled Zee into the glass hard enough to rattle the boards.

I barely heard him. Because every time practice slowed down for more than three seconds, another memory blindsided me.

By the end of skate, sweat soaked through the back of my compression shirt and my lungs burned pleasantly from exertion, but none of it touched the pressure building inside my head.

That was new.

Usually hockey fixed things. Enough noise. Enough exhaustion. Enough adrenaline to drown out whatever else lived underneath it.

Today it didn’t work at all.

Because every single time I looked toward the executive hallway side of the arena, my brain supplied the image automatically.

Dark green sweater.

Gold hoops.

Cool eyes.

Mr. Burns.

Like she’d never once loved me at all.

Once I finally got home later thatnight, my entire body felt exhausted in the specific way only hockey and emotional ruin could accomplish together.

My place overlooked the lake just outside Northbend.

Modern build. Too much black metal and expensive wood. Big windows. Open floor plan.

I bought it after signing with the Frosthawks because some stupid hopeful part of me had thought staying in Minnesota meant something.

Back then, it felt permanent.

Now it mostly just felt quiet.

I tossed my keys onto the kitchen island and stood there for a second listening to the silence settle around me.

Just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint rattle of wind against the windows overlooking the dark water outside.

Dangerous.

Stillness always got dangerous eventually.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge and slammed the cap off against the counter before heading toward the living room without bothering to turn lights on.

The city glowed faintly across the lake beyond the windows. Cold blue reflections rippled across the glass.

I dropped heavily onto the couch and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, beer hanging loosely from one hand.

Lucy Thomas worked for the fucking Frosthawks.