The Collision

Jace's POV

My lungs burned as I dashed off the face-off dot, I dug my stick blade into the ice, the puck snapped back to me clean. I dropped my shoulders low, and drove hard. I carried it through the neutral zone, faked left, cut right, and ripped a wrist shot that whistled past the goalie's glove. The net rattled, my teammates banged their sticks against the boards.

I didn't celebrate, I skated back to center ice, my jaw tight, already signaling for the next drill. My shoulders felt heavy under the pads even though practice had barely started. This was my job as the Captain; The one everyone looked to when things got messy, I had to be the example.

Mike tapped my shin pad as he lined up beside me. "You're on another level today, man."

I gave him a quick nod but didn't answer. Words took energy I didn't want to waste. Instead, I focused on the cold air biting at my face, the way my skates gripped the ice when I pushed off. Every stride had to be perfect and every decision sharp. Because if I slipped, even a little, it gave Dad another reason to point it out later.

We ran drill after drill, I won every face-off, threaded passes through tight gaps and blocked shots that should have beat me. My legs screamed after the third suicide sprint, but I kept my face blank. Captains aren't supposed to show it hurts. I circled back, called out adjustments to the defensemen and tapped gloves when someone made a good play. On the outside I looked in control. Inside, my mind wouldn't shut up.

By the time the coach blew the whistle I was drenched in sweat, my jersey had clung to my back. I pulled off my helmet and dragged a hand through my wet hair. The arena lights felt too bright as they stabbed my face. My shoulder twinged; that same dull ache that had been there for weeks but I rolled it once and ignored it.

"Good effort today, Carter" Coach said as we headed off the ice, "keep leading like that."

I forced a half-smile. "Thanks."

In the locker room the guys were loud, joking about weekend plans, parties and chirping each other about missed shots. I sat on the bench in front of my stall and unlaced my skates slowly. The laces felt rough against my fingers, my hands were steady but my mind kept replaying every small mistake from practice. That one backcheck where I'd been half a stride late, the pass that could have been harder, all the things Dad would definitely see.

My phone vibrated on the shelf above my stall. I stared at it for a few seconds and hesitated before picking it up, the name on the screen made my stomach drop.

It was Dad.

I stepped out into the hallway near the arena exit, away from the noise. The concrete floor felt cold through my socks. I leaned against the wall, my thumb hovering over the answer button, then I pressed it.

"Hey, Dad."

There was a pause; the kind that always meant trouble.

"Jace." His voice was flat, like he was reading stats off a sheet, "I watched the footage your coach sent over...what exactly am I supposed to be looking at here?"

I paced the narrow hallway and flexed my free hand at my side, my socks slid a little on the smooth floor. "I scored four times and controlled the tempo the whole practice. The guys were following my lead on-"

"You were half a step slow coming back on that power play," he interrupted,"and left a soft spot in the slot. I ran those same systems better at your age with worse players around me. The scouts are going to notice that hesitation, they always do."

My throat tightened. I stopped near a water fountain and gripped the edge of it, staring at the metal drain. The ache in my shoulder flared again as I gripped harder, I loosened my fingers but didn't let go.

"I adjusted after that," I said, keeping my voice even. "We ran it clean the next three times."

"Adjusting isn't enough when you're the one wearing the C," he replied. "You're supposed to set the standard, not catch up to it. I didn't raise you to be average, Jace. I won two championships by twenty-one. People still talk about those runs, what are they going to say about yours if you keep playing like this?"

I closed my eyes for a second, the hallway felt smaller. My breathing sounded too loud in my own ears, I opened my eyes and stared at the painted cinder block wall until the texture blurred.

"I'm trying to lead them the right way," I muttered,"the team's undefeated. We're ranked top five nationally."

Silence stretched on the line. I could picture him sitting in his office back home, probably shaking his head the way he always did.

"Trying doesn't win rings," he finally said. "And undefeated doesn't mean shit if you fold when it matters. Fix the gaps in your game and stop wasting time on things that don't move the needle. I expect the next footage to look like a captain actually earned that letter."

The call ended with a soft click.

I lowered the phone and stood completely still for a long moment, my hand stayed wrapped around the device until my knuckles ached.

My mind kept looping through his words; half a step slow, average and not enough. I pressed my forehead against the cool wall and just breathed In through my nose, out through my mouth, the way I did before big games. It didn't stop the tightness spreading across my chest but it helped

As I stood there, the memory from earlier flashed back.

That girl in the quad.

She had come around the corner fast, head down, earbuds in. My shoulder had collided with hers. She stumbled, and for a second she fell right into me. My hands had caught her arms automatically.

She was slim, lighter than I expected. Her palms had pressed against my chest through my jacket. Her skin was warm, smooth where my fingers had wrapped around her upper arms. When she looked up, her expressive eyes were wide; not just from surprise, but something sharper. Maybe fear, like she was already pulling away even while I held her steady.

For that brief moment, something had shifted, a quiet pull. The way her breath caught, the way my own grip had lingered a second longer than necessary before I let go. She smelled faintly like coffee and something clean, like fresh laundry. Then she stepped back quickly, muttered something, and hurried away.

I shook my head, pushing the memory aside. My shoulder throbbed again. I rolled it carefully.

I couldn't afford distractions right now. Not with Dad watching, not with the team counting on me and not with everything riding on how I performed.

But the feel of her in my arms for that one second wouldn't leave me alone.

I thought about the guys in the locker room laughing right now. They saw the captain who scored and led drills but they didn't see this version; the one standing in an empty hallway trying not to crack because his dad's voice still lived rent-free in his head no matter how many goals he scored.

My shoulder throbbed again. I rolled it carefully, testing the pain. It had been getting worse for weeks, but telling anyone meant questions. Questions led to weakness, and weakness led to more talks like this one.

I straightened up, shoved the phone into my pocket, and walked back toward the locker room. My steps felt heavier than they should after practice. The noise of the team spilled out into the hall as I got closer to laughter, trash talk and someone blasting music. I paused just outside the door, rested my hand on the frame and forced my face into the version they expected. Calm, In control and ready.

Because that's what captains did.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.