The next few days blurred into a grind Alex could almost stand. Early mornings at the rink, classes he half-paid attention to, nights staring at the dorm ceiling while Jake snored. Hockey was the only thing that cut through the fog. On the ice, he didn't have to think about Lena or the blood or the screams. Just skate, hit, score. Simple.
Practice started at six again, same cold bite in the air. Alex showed up early, taped his stick in silence while the locker room filled with chatter. Guys nodded at him now, some wary, some respectful after the tryout fight. Brett shot him dirty looks but kept his mouth shut. Smart.
Coach Daniels ran them ragged. Suicide skates till legs turned to jelly, then battle drills in the corners. Puck protection, body positioning, the kind of shit that left bruises under pads. Alex thrived in it. He pinned a sophomore against the boards, lifted his stick easy, stole the puck clean. Coach blew the whistle.
"Good, Ramirez! That's how you finish a check. Don't drop gloves next time, though."
Alex nodded curt, no smile.
Scrimmage came last. He got bumped up to third line for the day—reward for keeping his cool, maybe. Puck dropped in the neutral zone. Alex forechecked hard, poked the puck loose from their top D-man, the turned on the jets. Full speed rush, two on one. He deked the defender, drew the goalie out, then slid a no-look pass across the slot. His linemate buried it five-hole.
Bench went nuts, sticks banging. "Nice feed, Ramirez!"
He skated back, face blank, but inside something sparked. Small, but real.
Mia was there again, up in the stands with a notebook this time, pretending to study but eyes locked on the ice. She'd been showing up almost every practice now, always with some excuse. Her friends teased her about it in the quad, loud enough for people to hear. "Mia's got a crush on the bad boy." She flipped them off, but didn't deny it hard.
After practice, showers steamed hot. Guys joked about weekend games—the season opener was coming up against some rival school. Alex toweled off quick, pulled on jeans and hoodie, ready to bolt.
Brett cornered him by the lockers, towel around his waist, still bruised from tryouts. "Think you're hot shit now, huh? Fourth line scrub gets one lucky shift."
Alex zipped his bag slow. "Move."
"Or what? Gonna cry to coach again?"
Alex stepped in close, voice low and cold. "You want round two? Here? No refs."
Brett backed up a step, muttering "fucking psycho" under his breath, but he left it.
Outside, the sky was gray, threat of rain hanging heavy. Alex lit a cigarette he'd bummed off some guy—bad habit he'd picked back up. Leaned against the rink wall, smoke curling up.
Mia came around the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee in hand again.
"Smoking's bad for your lungs, hockey boy."
He exhaled slowly, not looking. "Everything's bad for you."
She leaned next to him, close but not touching. "Saw that pass today. Pretty slick. You always this good, or just showing off for an audience?"
"Go away."
"Nah." She sipped her coffee. "team party's Friday after the opener. Whole campus goes. You coming?"
"No."
"Why not? Afraid of fun?"
He flicked the cigarette away, turned to her. "Parties are for people who got nothing to forget."
Mia's smirk faded a bit. She studied his face, the scar, the dark eyes. "What's her name?"
Alex froze. "What?"
"The girl you're forgetting. Or trying to. It's a her, right? Ex? Dead?"
His hands clenched into fists. Anger flashed hot. "Shut your fucking mouth."
She didn't back down. Just held his stare. "Hit a nerve, huh? Fine. Don't tell me. But I'm right."
Alex shoved off the wall, bag over shoulder, walking fast toward the dorms. She followed, boots crunching leaves.
"Come on, Alex. Talk to me. Why do you push everyone away?"
"Because people die when they get close," he snapped, voice cracking just a hair before he locked it down.
He stopped, breathing hard. Mia stopped too, eyes wide. For once, no comeback.
The words hung there, heavy as the clouds overhead. Rain started, soft drops turning to steady pour.
Alex turned and walked away, rain soaking his hoodie, mixing with something wet on his face he wouldn't admit to.
Mia watched him go, coffee forgotten in her hand, getting cold.
That night, he skipped dinner. Laid on his bed, headphones in but no music playing. Jake tried talking about the game.
"Dude, you gotta come Friday. Chicks, beer, the works."
"Not interested."
Jake shrugged. "Your loss, man."
Alex stared at the ceiling till lights out.
But Mia's question echoed. What's her name?
Lena. Her name was Lena.
And for the first time in months, he let himself say it out loud, whisper in the dark.
The weight shifted again. Another ounce gone.
But the game was coming. And with it, more eyes. More pressure.
More chances to break.