Page 6 of Broken Blades

Ice chips sprayed. My skates carved twin arcs as I slid backwards into the boards. The plexiglass shuddered. Somewhere Coach's whistle shrieked, sharp enough to split eardrums.

I straightened. Tested my ribs. Nothing broken.

The kid circled back, grinning like he'd just made the highlight reel. "Got you clean, Garrison."

"Did you?"

I pushed off, picked up speed. The puck sat thirty feet out, abandoned mid-drill. Morrison saw me coming and moved—smart kid, that one—clearing the lane.

I wound up. Released.

The shot cracked against iron, sang that perfect metallic note, and dropped through the net.

Coach blew the whistle again. "That's how you finish a play."

The rookie's grin evaporated.

I skated past him, tapped his shin guard with my stick. "Good hit, though. Keep your weight centered next time."

Pain was simple. You took it, absorbed it, used it. Pain made sense in a way nothing else did anymore.

Betrayal didn't. Betrayal left scars that never showed on x-rays.

We ran the drill four more times. Each time, someone tested me—checking if the old man still had it, if age had finally caught up. Each time, I proved I did.

Thirty-six was ancient in this league. Most guys retired at thirty-two, moved into coaching or broadcasting or front office positions where their knees didn't scream and their shoulders didn't pop every morning.

I kept playing because the ice was honest. You either made the play or you didn't. You either earned respect or you got buried. No lies here. No pretty words that meant nothing when the lights went out.

The whistle blew final.

"Hit the showers," Coach called. "Masquerade fundraiser Friday. Everyone better show up looking presentable."

Groans rippled through the team. Jenkins threw his gloves down. "Do we have to?"

"Yes." Coach's tone left no room for negotiation. "Donors write the checks. You smile, you shake hands, you don't embarrass the organization."

I unlaced my skates, taking my time while the younger guys stampeded toward the locker room. Their voices echoed off concrete—jokes about which reporter would be there, which donor's daughter was single, who'd get the drunkest fastest.

Morrison lingered by the bench, retaping his stick even though practice was over. Kid had potential. Worked hard. Kept his head down.

"Something on your mind?" I asked.

He glanced up. "You really going to this thing Friday?"

"Have to."

"Even with that ugly mug?" Weston Cole asked.

"Can't help my face," I muttered. I forgot I had the scars until someone brought them up. And someone always brought them up.

"You don't seem like the fundraiser type," the rookie said.

I stood, skates dangling from my hand. "I'm not. But the team needs money. Money comes from people who want to feel important. So we put on suits and let them feel important."

"Cynical."

"Realistic."