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Invisible Ties
JONAH
Every push, every stride, every goddamn breath on the ice is a struggle. Five months into the hockey season and almost three months with the Boise Trout, and I’m not just drowning—I’m six feet under. An NHL star going supernova: that’s the Jonah Holt story playing out in real time, and nothing I’m doing to stop it is working.
Coach Barrymore’s whistle pierces the air, and my ears are still ringing when his voice booms across the arena. “Holt! What the hell was that?”
I don’t answer because I have none. I just missed another defensive assignment—my third today. I was a star center for Colorado, but as a defenseman for Boise, I’m failing so spectacularly they should sell tickets to watch the train wreck. And actually, they have.
“You call that defense?” Coach’s veins pop on his forehead like he might stroke out. “My niece moves faster than you, and she’s crawling.”
A few of the younger guys snicker. I keep my eyes on the ice and my mouth shut. No point arguing when he’s right.
Brooks Kingston, my childhood best friend, sister’s fiancé, and one reason I’m even on this team, skates by with a what-the-fuck look on his face. That cuts deeper than Coach’s shouting. “Get it together, man.” His voice is low. “Denver’s gonna chew you up.”
“No kidding.” In two days, my old team’ll be itching to take me down and watch me fail. The guys I won a championship with two years ago will see what I’ve become: a has-been at thirty.
“Again!” Coach blows his whistle, and we reset the drill.
I push harder this time, legs burning, lungs screaming. But my timing’s off. I’m a step behind, then two, then I’m sprawled on the ice after colliding with Carter, another defenseman.
“Jesus Christ!” Coach throws his clipboard across the bench. It cracks against the wall and falls in pieces. “That’s it. Everyone hit the showers. Not you, Holt.”
Fanfuckingtastic.
The guys avoid eye contact as they skate off… all except Brooks, who gives me a small head shake before disappearing down the tunnel.
I stand in front of Coach, still breathing hard, sweat slicking my face. He waits until we’re alone before he tears in. “What the hell is going on with you?” His voice is quiet now, which is worse than the yelling. “You know what I had to promise to get you on this team mid-season? The strings I pulled?”
“I know, Coach.”
“Then why are you playing like you’ve never seen a hockey stick before? You’re a goddamn liability out there.”
The truth stings, but what can I say? That I haven’t slept over three hours a night since I moved to Boise? That burning resentment is eating my guts? That hockey—the only thing I’ve ever been good at—doesn’t feel right anymore?
The Colorado Blizzards drafted a new hot shot, and I was informed he was taking my position as center, and I’d be moving to defense. I put my foot down, telling the Blizzards I’d renegotiate my contract. Their response? “Go ahead.” On the losing end of my ultimatum, I took what I could get when Brooks and Coach Barrymore got me onto the Boise Trout. At least it was on my terms, but guess what position?
Yeah, defenseman.
Too bad I suck ass as one.
I swore up and down I’d nail the position, that they wouldn’t be sorry, and they believed me. I even believed me. At this moment, I’m nailing shit-all nothing, and I’m pretty sure they have buyer’s remorse.
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I mutter, the same bullshit promise I’ve been making for weeks.
Coach steps closer, jabbing a finger into my chest. “One more performance like that, Holt, and you’re benched. I don’t care what your contract says or who your friends are. This is my team, and I won’t watch you drag it down because you can’t get your head out of your ass.”
I nod, jaw clenched so tight my teeth might shatter.
“Go home. Take tomorrow off. Figure your shit out.” He turns away, effectively dismissing me. “And Holt? You’re running out of chances. I mean it.”
The locker room’s empty by the time I get there—a small mercy. I shower fast, the hot water doing nothing to ease the knot between my shoulder blades. My NHL dream isslipping away—too young to retire, too old for a fresh start. Washed up after five years at the top. What a joke.
I need to get away from the city and clear my head on my day off tomorrow, so I head a half hour away from Boise to my home in the small town of Dickens, where I grew up and my parents live. The drive is a blur of gray slush and afternoon daylight—Idaho on the first of March is a mix of melting snow and rain. Well, unless another snowstorm hits, which can happen anytime through April. I pull into the driveway of my place—too big for a bachelor's house, too cold for a home.
I bought my Boise penthouse condo and this place when I signed with the Trout, thinking maybe a change of scenery and position would fix whatever’s broken in me. Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a pool, gym, theater room, a kitchen I never use, and a big yard for a dog I don’t have. All it’s done is amplify how alone I really am.
