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Deacon gives him the finger.

“Helpful,” I tell Whylde.

“It’s a gift.”

The official skates toward the center.

I hop over the boards.

Noise swells around me, but once I settle over the faceoff dot, it fades into the distance.

Stick.

Puck.

Ice.

The center across from me shifts his weight. I watch his bottom hand.

Then the puck drops.

And my mind goes quiet in the only way it ever does—by getting completely filled with hockey.

The angle of a skate. A defenseman leaning half a step too far. Mercer already moving before I have the puck. Jax holding wide, waiting to see which way I send it.

I don’t have to think through any of it. I just see it.

First shift of a new season. A few new bodies on the ice, familiar ones beside me, and sixty minutes to find our rhythm again.

I win the draw and send the puck back.

Here, every move leads to another one. Every decision has an answer.

Read the ice. Find the opening. Make the play.

This part makes sense. It’s my mantra.

The outside world comes back the second I get to the locker room. Music. Voices. The rip of tape.

Someone bitching about the flight to Boston tomorrow.

I peel my undershirt over my head and drag a towel over my face. My skin is still hot despite the chill clinging to the room, sweat cooling along my spine.

“Cap.”

Mercer tosses a protein bar my way.

I catch it against my chest.

“Eat.”

I look at him.

“Did you just mother me?”

“Maybe. Just don’t get used to it.”

“Aww, thanks, Mommy.” I tear open the wrapper and take a bite.