Page 2 of Saddle Storm

“I don’t understand,” I practically stutter.

“You’re not good for her,” he says flatly. Not loud. Not cruel. Final. “She’s fourteen, got a bright future ahead, stable, calm, safe.” He scans me once more like I’m anything but that. “Imagine the damage you could do to my only child in the next three years.”

I stare at him. A hollowness opening in my chest.

Mr. Dalton walks out like he doesn’t plan to ever look back.

Not good for her.

Not good enough.

Words that have been simmering beneath the surface for the past year. And not only from Mr. Dalton.

From the silence Mom left behind.

From the chores list that kept shrinking each week, the ease with which Dad adapted to my hockey lifestyle instead. Practically pushing me out the door when practice was starting.

I can read a damn room.

Dad’s face is even as he rubs his forehead and sets his hat back on. “Storm’s not coming back this summer. Tom isn’t either. Think it’s best we all keep our distance.”

“Dad—”

“I know you meant well—bringing Storm into your crowd. But . . . it’s not worth the fight. Just . . . keep your distance.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

His gaze drops to my bag. “Son, you’ve got other things going on. We all know you’re not a lifer here. What do you think is going to happen with Storm if you two stay . . . friends?”

“We are just friends, Dad.”

“For now, yes. But you’re young. And the kind of relationship you and Storm developed could . . . well it could leave her . . .”

“What?”

“Mr. Dalton’s concerned about his daughter in a way you won’t understand at fifteen.”

I shake my head. I understand plenty. And it’s just another nail in the coffin.

“Come on. Let’s get you to that bus.” He grabs his jacket and puts an arm around me as we head out. “Don’t worry, something tells me you won’t have any trouble finding friends like Storm in your life.”

1

Here we go again. I sigh internally.

It’s not that I haven’t been looking forward to getting back on the ice and in season mode—it’s what I live for. The way my blades hit it on day one. That first hiss. That cut. The sound that, for most of my life, has been the only thing that could quiet the rest of the world. The thing that gives me my own purpose.

My own personal place of belonging.

With opening night still a couple of weeks away, pre-season scrimmages don’t usually pull a big crowd, but tonight the stands look almost full. Season-ticket regulars in worn jerseys who’d show up if we played on a sheet of ice behind a gas station. The noise isn’t playoff-loud, just steady. Kids banging the glass, light cheering, someone shouting unsolicited coaching comments like a little-league dad.

My shoulder burns in that familiar, annoying way—the one the trainers say is “residual.”

Like they care.

I hear a word like that, I think “never going away” which also means “suffer through.” And eventually . . . people will notice.

Oh yeah, Thorne’s got the bad shoulder—could tell on that last game.