The Off-Switch

CHASE

The front door closing behind me felt like the airlock sealing on a submarine. I was escaping. The duffel bag slung over my shoulder wasn’t just full of skates, sticks, and workout gear; it was full of distance. A full week of it.

The drive to the camp facility—three hours north, tucked into a pine-scented corner of the state—was supposed to be a reset. Time to clear my head. Time to focus on the only thing that mattered: hockey.

For the first hour, it worked. I cranked the stereo—some aggressive punk band I hadn’t listened to since high school—and let the noise drown out everything else. The memory of her mouth. The taste of her skin. The hollow, defeated way she’d said, “Yeah. A truce.”

By the second hour, the music faded into background static. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. And with it came the memories. Not just the kiss. Everything. The bonfire. The kitchen at midnight. The way she’d looked at me when she told me I was still worth something. The way I’d meant it.

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were white. *Focus on hockey.* That’s what this was for. Scouting combine. Elite prospects. NHL scouts in the stands. This was the big show. No room for distractions. No room for… her.

The camp was exactly what I needed. A brutal, beautiful grind. Two ice sessions a day. Conditioning that left my muscles screaming and my lungs burning. Strategy meetings that stretched late into the evening. I was surrounded by guys who were just as hungry as I was, just as driven. We spoke the same language: puck possession, gap control, forecheck pressure. It was a world I understood. A world where I was in control.

The first few days, I was a machine. I threw myself into the drills with a ferocity that surprised even myself. I was first in every sprint. Last in every conditioning drill. I played on the edge—aggressive, physical, relentless. I needed to be. I needed the exhaustion. I needed the bone-deep ache that was so profound it left no room for anything else.

At night, in my sterile dorm room, I’d collapse onto the bed and pass out before my head even hit the pillow. It was perfect. No time to think. No time to remember.

But the body has a way of betraying the mind.

On the fourth night, I woke up at 2:17 a.m. My heart was hammering against my ribs, my body slick with cold sweat. I’d had a dream. A memory, really. The kitchen. The wall. The feel of her hands fisting in my hair, the way her leg had hooked around my hip, pulling me closer. The taste of her.

I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, head in my hands. My cock was hard, a traitorous, insistent ache against my boxer briefs. I swore under my breath—low, frustrated. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the image away, but it was burned onto the back of my eyelids.

*“Can we just forget it?”*

God, what an idiot. What a fucking coward.

I stood up, walked to the small window, and stared out at the darkness. The campus was silent, sleeping. I was alone. Completely, utterly alone. And I’d never felt less like it.

The next day, I was off.

My timing was sloppy. Passes just a hair off-target. A step slow on the backcheck. During a defensive zone coverage drill, I misread a play, went for the hit instead of taking the passing lane, and gave up a goal that made Coach Reynolds—who was here as a guest consultant—pinch the bridge of his nose in disappointment.

“Hartley!” he barked from the bench, voice cutting through the cold arena air. “Where’s your head? You’re thinking out there! Stop thinking and just play! Read the play, not the goddamn scouting report in your head!”

I skated to the bench, jaw tight, face burning with a shame that had nothing to do with the blown assignment. I knew he was right. I was in my head. And she was in there with me.

That night, I broke my own rule.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, body still buzzing with restless energy. I reached for my phone on the nightstand. Told myself I was just checking the time. Just seeing if I had any messages from my agent.

My thumb moved with a will of its own, opening the photo gallery. I didn’t have to scroll far. There was one photo. Just one. I’d taken it the day of the heatwave, before everything had gone to hell. She was asleep on the couch in the basement, curled up under a throw blanket, mouth slightly open, hair a messy halo around her face on the pillow. She looked peaceful. Unguarded. Beautiful.

I’d taken it without thinking. A moment of weakness. Now I couldn’t bring myself to delete it.

I stared at the image, chest aching with a feeling so complex it was hard to name. It wasn’t just desire. It was… something else. Something softer. Something that felt dangerously like longing.

I closed the app. Tossed the phone onto the other bed. Stared at the ceiling.

The final day of camp was a scrimmage. A full-game showcase in front of a handful of scouts and general managers. This was it. The audition. The reason I was here.

I was better. Sharper. I channeled all the frustration, all the confusion, all the goddamn *longing* into my play. I was physical. I was precise. I scored a goal on a wicked wrist shot from the circles that beat the goalie clean. I set up another with a no-look pass that drew a few appreciative murmurs from the stands.

I played like the guy they thought I was. The guy I was supposed to be.

After the game, while I was stripping off my gear in the locker room, a voice cut through the chatter.

“Hartley. Good game.”

I looked up. It was one of the scouts, a guy from the Blackhawks I’d met a few times. He was holding a clipboard, expression neutral.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound casual, like my heart wasn’t hammering against my ribs.

“You’ve got the tools,” he said, eyes scanning me up and down. “No question. The speed, the shot, the hockey sense… it’s all there. But you’ve got a tendency to get in your own head. You overthink when the pressure’s on. You play tight.”

He paused, letting the words land.

“The difference between a first-rounder and a second-rounder isn’t talent at this level. It’s mentality. It’s the ability to let the game come to you. To trust your instincts.” He tapped his pen on the clipboard. “You’re thinking too much, kid. Find your off-switch.”

He walked away before I could respond.

I sat there on the bench, sweaty gear still half-on, the scout’s words echoing in the sudden silence of the locker room.

*You’re thinking too much, kid. Find your off-switch.*

My off-switch was a girl with sharp green eyes and a mouth that tasted like fury and chamomile tea.

And I had just spent a week proving to a dozen NHL executives that I didn’t have one.

The drive home was three hours of pure, unadulterated hell. Every mile brought me closer to the house. To her. The silence in the car was no longer a relief. It was a countdown.

I pulled into the driveway just after six. The house looked the same. The lights were on.

I killed the engine. Sat there for a long moment, just staring at the front door. I was exhausted in every way a person could be. My body ached. My mind was a mess. And my heart… my heart was a coward that had just run out of road.

I grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat and headed for the door.

Time to go home.