The alarm on Alex's phone went off at five-thirty. He killed it with one punch and laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers. Jake was still snoring across the room, mouth open, one foot sticking out from the blanket. Alex sat up slow, head pounding from no sleep and too many memories. Today was tryouts. Didn't matter if he made the team or not; he just needed to feel something that wasn't guilt.
He pulled on track pants, hoodie, and the beat-up sneakers he'd worn since senior year of high school. Grabbed the duffel with his borrowed gear. The campus was dead quiet this early, just wet leaves stuck to the sidewalk and the faint smell of rain that never really left.
The rink doors were unlocked. A couple guys were already there, stretching, taping sticks. Alex dropped his bag in the corner, laced the rental skates tight. The blades felt weird, sharper than anything he'd used on frozen ponds back home, but good weird. Like they might actually cut something.
Coach Daniels blew in at six sharp, whistle around his neck, coffee in one hand. Big dude, ex-pro, arms like tree trunks. "Alright, ladies, let's see who wasted my time signing that sheet. Full gear, full contact after warm-up. If you puke, aim for the trash can."
They started with laps. Twenty, thirty, Alex lost count. Legs burning, lungs on fire, but it was clean pain. The kind that didn't come with flashbacks. Then stops and starts, tight turns that sprayed the ice shavings everywhere. Alex kept up easy. A couple rich-kid forwards were already breathing like they'd run a marathon.
Next came one-on-one battles in the corner. Coach paired him with some junior named Tyler, cocky smirk, brand-new gloves. Tyler dug for the puck first. Alex let him think he had it, then slammed his shoulder into Tyler's chest, lifted him clean off his skates, and walked away with the biscuit. Tyler hit the ice hard, wind knocked out.
Coach barked a laugh. "Ramirez! I like that shit. Keep it legal."
Scrimmage time. They split into two teams, no jerseys, just black tape on one side's helmets. Alex got put on the pate side with a couple other walk-ons. Puck dropped and it was chaos, sticks cracking, bodies slamming, the glass rattling every time someone got pinned.
His first shift, he won the draw clean, chipped it off the boards past the defender, and took off. Full sprint down the right wing. The D-man angled to cut him off. Alex faked inside, then snapped a wrist shot top corner. Goalie didn't even move. Puck hit the crossbar with a ping and dropped in.
The bench exploded, sticks banging boards. "Holy shit!" someone yelled.
Mia was in the stands, third row up, legs crossed, chewing gum like she was at a movie. She'd dragged her friend Sarah along, claiming she "needed coffee and drama." When the puck went in, Mia sat forward, eyes wide. She hadn't expected that from the quiet asshole she'd been messing with all week.
Alex felt her watching. Didn't look up.
Second shift got nasty. Same D-man from before, big dude named Brett, decided he didn't like getting embarrassed. Alex picked up behind his own net, tried to rim it around the boards. Brett stepped up, cross-checked him right in the numbers. Alex's face smashed into the glass, helmet cracking loud. Stars bursting behind his eyes.
He came up swinging.
Gloves hit the ice. Brett was already grinning, fists up. First punch grazed Alex's cheek, split the skin. Second one never landed. Alex ducked, drove forward, tackled Brett into the boards. They went down hard, rolling, throwing bombs. Alex landed a solid right to the jaw, then another to the body. Refs and players jumped in, pulling them apart.
Coach Daniels skated over, face red. "Ramirez! Brett! Both of you idiots to the box. Five for fighting. And Ramirez, my office after!"
Alex spat blood onto the ice, red dots on white, and skated to the penalty box without a word. Sat there breathing hard, knuckles already swelling. Across the rink, Brett did the same, wiping blood from his lip, staring daggers.
Mia stood up in the stands, clapping slow. "Damn," she said loud enough for half the rink to hear. "Scarface can scrap."
Practice ended twenty minutes later. Most guys hit the showers. Alex stayed on the bench unlacing skates, replaying the fight in his head. Stupid. Could've cut before he even started.
Footsteps on the rubber floor. Mia leaned over the boards, arms folded, hoodie zipped up against the cold.
"Nice goal. And nice right hook, Ramirez."
He didn't look at her. "Go away."
"No." She hopped the boards like it was nothing, boots crunching on loose ice. "Where'd you learn to play like that? Street hockey in the hood or something?"
Alex yanked a skate off, tossed it in the bag. "None of your business."
She stepped closer, close enough he could smell vanilla. "Everything's my business when it's interesting. And you, Alex Ramirez, are real interesting right now."
He stood up fast, towering over her. "I said back off."
Mia didn't move. Just looked up at him, eyes flicking to the fresh cut on his cheek, then the blood on his lip. "You're bleeding again."
"I don't care."
She dug in her pocket, pulled out a crumpled napkin from the cafeteria, held it out. "Here. You look like you lost a fight with a blender."
He stared at it a second, then snatched it and pressed it to his face. "Why are you always up my ass?"
"Because you're not like the rest of these soft frat boys," she said, simple as that. "And I wanna know why you walk around like the world already ended."
His jaw clenched. For half a second, Lena's face flashed, her smile right before the shots rang out. He shoved the memory down so hard it hurt.
"You don't wanna know," he said, voice rough. "Trust me."
Mia tilted her head. "Try me."
Coach's voice boomed from the tunnel. "Ramirez! Office! Move it!"
Alex grabbed his bag and brushed past her. Mia watched him go, chewing her lip, something new in her eyes. Not just the usual bitchy curiosity. Something softer.
Later that night, the final roster went up on the locker room door. His name was there, fourth line right wing, with a handwritten note: See me about keeping your gloves on.
Mia was waiting outside when he came out, hands in her pockets, breath fogging in the cold night air.
"You made it," she said.
He kept walking.
She matched his stride. "You're welcome, by the way. I didn't tell anyone you almost murdered Brett."
Alex stopped under a streetlight, rain starting to fall again, soft and steady. He looked at her for a long second.
"What do you want, Mia?"
She shrugged, but her smirk was gone. "I don't know yet. But I'm not done asking."
He stared a beat longer, then turned and walked away into the dark, boots splashing puddles.
For the first time in forever, the weight on his chest felt one ounce lighter. Just one. But it was something.