Page 55 of Scarred

But tonight…

Tonight it’s not working.

My hands curl into fists at my sides as my control slips away.

Because every time I close my eyes, it’s not the puck I see…

It’s her.

The sound of her breathing.

The way she said my name.

The way…

“Blade.”

My eyes fly open to see Stone standing there, a worried frown on his face. “Time to get back out there. The guys are waiting on you.”

I look around and notice the locker room is empty. He peers at me carefully as if I somehow might break. Avoiding his eyes, I stand up and grab my gear.

“Coming,” I say briskly.

“Cayden…”

“Leave it, Stone.” I push my hands into my gloves and grab my stick.

“No. We don’t get to leave it,” he says, getting in my face. “If whatever you’re dealing with keeps affecting your game, it’s my business to get to the bottom of it. We’ll be revisiting this later,” he growls, walking away.

My jaw ticks as I roughly pull my mask down and follow him out the door.

I’ve played through pain…

Through exhaustion…

Through grief so thick I felt like I was drowning.

But I’ve never stepped onto the ice like this. My whole career is based on control and extreme concentration, and for the first time in a game, I have neither.

Skating to my net, I rough up the ice inside my crease.

Blocking out the crowd, I tune into the sound of my blades scraping against the cold surface. Glancing up in the stands, my eyes drift to where Luna sat just days before…a stranger sits in her place.

It feels all wrong.

Her absence strikes a nerve I don’t want touched, stirring the memory of another seat that stayed empty forever.

Shaking the dark thoughts away, I turn and drop into a butterfly a few times and quickly recover to my skates, testing my reflexes and loosening my hips.

Tapping the net on both sides and hunching over for the puck drop, I’m determined to turn my game around.

The damage is already done, though, and by the final horn, we take a loss of 2-5.

It’s always quieter after a loss, the frustration and defeat hanging heavy in the air. The banter is at a minimum as gear is thrown off and players go off on their own to do their muscle recovery techniques. A few prefer massages and stationary-bike flush rides, while others submerge themselves in the frigid cold of ice baths. Depending on how beat up their bodies feel, some do all three.

I feel the glances and side-eyes on me as I work to get my gear off. They know I fucked this game up.

I know I fucked this game up.