son

ing screech, and before the puck eve

g blindfolded since I was six years old. Instead, the vulcanized rubber sk

kers from the bench. Behind my eyes, a sledgehammer pounded against my skull in rhythmic agony. Stal

he boards, arms folded over his chest, his jaw set like reinfo

tapping my composite stick twice against the s

one yelled, and the whistle rest

didn't even need a fancy deke. He just leaned on his outside edge, dropped his shoulder, and blew right past me. I turned l

ter

fters of the practice facility,

s fucking orn

didn't skate hard to make up for the blown coverage. I just stared back at Anderson, my chin rais

nce Anderson had left. He jammed the whistle betwee

ting a thick finger toward th

nter ice, forming a rigid, quiet semi-circle. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at each other. More i

gate, stepping onto the fresh sheet with his heavy, lug-soled win

son P

on the back of my neck stand up. He stopped inches from me. He was half a head short

that carried across the breathless rink. "That 'C' stands for Captain. It stands for lea

mine. I saw no anger there-only

tly. "Do you honestly thin

lummeted through the ice into

ealing with things. Say you were up until four in the morning staring at the ceiling because every time y

throat was sealed shu

e devoid of warmth. "As of this second, you a

forward. He seized the embroidered white-and-gold 'C' sewn o

ring and nylon stitches po

clean off

patch of stitched fabric, but in that fraction of a second, it felt as thoug

lder, Kieran-my best friend, the only guy who knew how bad the nights had gotten-stared at me, his eyes wide with hel

cloth onto the white ice between my skates,

his back on me. "I don't want to see you out

hout looking back, blowing his whis

public execution. The world seemed to mute. All I could see w

ust a ghost

tick back and slashed down, driving the blade violently into the patch. The impact sent a ringing shockwave vibrating up t

t to see whe

t my eyes pinned straight ahead, refusing to meet Kieran's gaze, refus