Page 102 of Cut Off
The hearing is scheduled in fourteen days.
A lifetime.
Especially since I get one supervised visit a week, otherwise, no contact.
My chest goes tight, then tighter. Sweat beads down my spine, soaks my shirt. I keep skating, keep pushing, keep the pain right at the edge of bearable. It doesn’t help. Not a dent in the agony. If anything, it’s worse now—I’m slower, I’m messier, I’m not even moving like a hockey player, just a guy with too much self-hate and nowhere else to put it.
Coach tries looking the other way for an hour and a half—classic move. Then he makes noise at the doors. Lights, keys, the whole “I’m locking up” performance. I ignore him. Maybe if I stay out here long enough, I’ll forget.
He finally comes onto the ice, no skates, just those orthopedic shoes that announce a man’s knees are shot. Hands on hips. “You planning to sleep out here, Holt?”
I growl something noncommittal and go for another suicide sprint.
He shakes his head, disgusted and impressed. “You’re worse than Brooks, and that’s saying something.”
Three more laps. I lose count. My calves are cramping. I can’t find the energy to care.
Coach kills the lights over half the rink. He stands by the tunnel, arms folded, and waits. In the end, it’s not dramatic. It’s not a showdown. The ice just wins—I run out of legs, stop at center, and have to hang forward on my stick until the lightheadedness passes.
“Hit the treadmill if you’re still antsy,” Coach says. “But you’re done ruining my sheet for tonight.”
Yeah, yeah. I drag myself off the ice and strip the gear in silence. I don’t even hit the showers—just towel off, pull on sweats, and head for the gym.
I crank the treadmill to max incline, max speed, and go until my shirt sticks to me and my knees threaten mutiny. Sweat pours off my chin. My headphones died fifteen minutes ago, so I’m listening to my own breathing—ragged, ugly.
Still not enough.
None of this is enough to drown it—the thoughts, the panic, the failure. That in the end, Eli will decide I was just a blip, a failed experiment. Another reason to never trust again.
I don’t see Dad come in.
He’s just there, suddenly, by the bench near the weights. He’s not wearing a jacket, just the same old team polo and jeans he’s owned for a decade. His hair is going white at the temples now, and his eyes are rimmed red like he’s been agonizing over Eli too. He looks at me—really looks at me—and doesn’t flinch at the sweat or the feral edge in my face.
Without a word, he walks over and pulls the power cord out of the wall. The treadmill whines, then dies mid-stride. I nearly eat shit, grabbing the handrails to keep from smacking my teeth on the console.
Then it’s just me, breathing loud and fast, hands locked on the rail, staring at the belt.
Dad doesn’t say a damn thing.
He sitson the bench. Sets his elbows on his knees and waits.
My pulse is jack-hammering. Sweat tickles down my ribs, pooling at my waistline. I’m not looking at him. I’m not going to look first.
Minutes pass. The room is full of that rubber-gym smell, the humid tang of the air. My legs are useless. My feet feel like they’re vibrating.
Eventually, I let go, step off, and slouch to the nearest bench. The metal frame wobbles. I brace my elbows on my thighs, same as him, and put my face in my hands. Give it a second. Give it five.
Still nothing from Dad.
Finally, he speaks. It’s almost conversational, like we’re discussing lawn care.
“What are you most afraid of, Jonah?”
I almost laugh. What is this, therapy? My brain cycles through the answers, trying to find one that doesn’t make me look like a complete waste. I try tactical:
“We only have thirteen days before the judge makes it permanent.”
He nods.
