Page 4 of Puck Me Back to Life

Everything around it doesn't. And the cruelest part is that I can't imagine doing anything else.

During my suspension, I tried. God, I tried. I took online classes. I looked at business programs. I briefly considered coaching youth hockey. Nothing stuck. Every path eventually led back to the same realization. Hockey is the only thing I've ever been exceptional at.

Unfortunately, it's also the thing that ruined my life.

The locker room grows louder as more players arrive.

I glance toward the far side of the room and immediately regret it. Not because of anything bad.

Actually, the opposite. Ashford Grant is taking off his shirt. I should look away. Instead, I stare for approximately three seconds longer than is socially acceptable.

I may be suicidal, but I'm not dead. There are very few pleasures left in my life. Occasionally, catching a glimpse of Ashford Grant without a shirt on is one of them. I refuse to apologize.

In my defense, Ash is very difficult to ignore.

The man is enormous. At six-foot-five and built like somebody carved a defenseman out of granite, he has a habit of making professional athletes look undersized. Which is impressive considering most of us are already large human beings. Large muscles, tanned skin, and that hair.

His long black hair is still damp from the shower. It hangs past his jaw today instead of being tied back, and somehow that makes him look even more intimidating. Or attractive.

Unfortunately, both things can be true.

Ash plays defense. The position suits him perfectly. His entire job is basically preventing people from causing problems through strategic violence. He's very good at it.

His gaze lifts directly to mine.

Shit.

The corner of his mouth curls upward immediately. “Morning, Hayes.”

My face grows warm.

Fantastic.

I am twenty-five years old and apparently still capable of blushing like a teenage girl. “Good morning.”

Ash's smirk widens, his hazel eyes shimmering with something I can't read. Then he turns back toward his stall.

The interaction lasts less than ten seconds. It still manages to derail my entire train of thought.

I stare at my energy drink.

Practice starts twenty minutes later. Thankfully, hockey remains hockey. The game doesn't care whether you slept three hours or eight. The game only asks whether you can perform.

That part, at least, I still understand.

I throw myself into drills. Passing. Shooting. Conditioning. Anything that keeps my brain occupied.

Coach spends most of the morning screaming at people. Some things never change.

Halfway through practice, one of the younger forwards misses a defensive assignment and gets absolutely destroyed by the coaching staff. The mistake wasn't even particularly terrible.

Unfortunately, timing matters.

The kid skates away looking like he'd rather be hit by a bus. A few minutes later, Coach watches me thread a difficult pass through traffic.

“That's how it's done,” he shouts. “Take notes.” His eyes point at the kid. Davis, I think, is his name.

The compliment lands awkwardly.