Skating on thin hearts

The air inside the rink was sharp and cold, every breath searing his lungs like frost. The crowd was already restless, cheering, jeering, stamping their feet against the metal bleachers. It didn’t matter which side they were on. Tonight, they wanted blood.

Atlan Wolfe tugged his helmet down, stick gripped tight between his gloves. His coach barked orders from the bench, but he barely heard them over the roar. He didn’t play hockey to follow rules. He played because it was the only place where he could hit, shove, fight and be applauded for it.

The puck dropped.

Immediately, Atlan launched forward, blades tearing across the ice. The world blurred into speed and sweat. He caught the puck with a sharp flick of his stick, slicing past one defenseman, then another. The crowd roared louder, his pulse thundering in time.

“Move it, Wolfe!” someone shouted from the bench.

The next second, his body slammed into the boards. His vision rattled, helmet smacking against the glass. The rival player leaned in close, sneering through the cage of his mask.

“You skate like your mother,” he hissed, low enough only Atlan could hear.

Red fog filled his vision.

Before the ref could whistle, Atlan dropped his gloves. His fists connected with a satisfying crack against the rival’s jaw. The other man swung back, his knuckles glancing off Atlan’s cheek, sparks bursting across his vision.

The crowd went wild. Chants shook the arena as they grappled, skates carving deep lines into the ice. Blood smeared across Atlan’s knuckles, across the rival’s lip. He welcomed the sting, the chaos, the pure release of fury no amount of training could cage.

“Wolfe! Enough!” his coach screamed.

The referees surged forward, yanking them apart. Atlan wrenched free long enough to land one last savage punch that sent the rival sprawling across the ice.

The ref blew his whistle hard enough to pierce through the noise. “Wolfe, that’s game misconduct. You’re ejected. Get your things and go!”

Atlan spat blood into the ice as he skated off, chest heaving, the crowd torn between roaring approval and furious boos. His teammates didn’t even look at him when he passed the bench. They were used to this. Too tired of cleaning up his messes.

The locker room was worse, silent except for the drip of melting ice from his pads. He tore off his gloves and slammed them into his cubby. Another penalty, another game ruined and another reason for management to finally cut him loose.

“Fuck,” he muttered into his fist, slamming his head against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. He heard the final whistle blow twice, signifying the end of the game. The players would soon come into the locker room, and he didn’t want to deal with their judgmental stares.

He stripped off his gear, shoved it into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder without bothering to zip it up. Walking out, he slammed the locker door so hard the windows rattled in response.

The voices of his teammates echoed down the hallway.

“That back there was sick, man. He keeps pulling these stunts every time and we’re just so tired of it,” one voice said. Atlan recognized it as one of his forwards.

The voices hushed when they spotted him.

“Hey, Atlan. Coach said to see him in his office before you leave,” Danny, the goalie and the only one Atlan considered a friend or more than a friend said to him. A knowing look passed between them as Atlan pushed his way past them.

At the office door, he reached for the knob but froze when voices inside filtered through.

“The general manager didn’t like this at all. Our biggest sponsor is threatening to pull out if we don’t kick him off the team, Gared,” Phil, the assistant coach, said.

“We can’t just kick him off. His mother just died, that would be devastating. He’s just going through a rough patch right now, and you know this, Phil,” Gared, the head coach, replied.

“They’re calling a board meeting to discuss his future here. The league season starts in a few months. We don’t need someone who fights everyone on the rink,” Phil pressed.

Atlan decided he’d heard enough and yanked the door open. Both men turned toward him.

“Come in, Wolfe. How long have you been standing there?” Gared asked.

“Not long, Coach. Danny said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes. I’ll go straight to the point. Tomorrow, there will be a board meeting to discuss your contract and your future here. Your behavior these last few months has been unacceptable, Wolfe. We know it might have to do with your mother’s death, but you’re putting the team’s performance at risk.”

Atlan’s jaw ticked. “I hear you, Coach. Whatever the outcome of the meeting, I’ll accept it in good faith.” Without waiting for another word, he stormed out.

The cold outside bit through his hoodie. He fumbled with his keys, hands trembling too much to find the lock.

“Fuck this!” he yelled, slamming his fist against the roof of the car.

A throat cleared behind him.

He spun, expecting his coach or his agent. Instead, a man in a black wool coat leaned casually against his car. No jersey, no clipboard, no pity in his expression, just sharp, calculating interest.

“I thought hockey was supposed to be a sport,” the stranger said smoothly. “Not a street brawl.”

“Who the hell are you?” Atlan snapped, sizing him up. Expensive watch, expensive coat and calculating eyes.

“I represent Carter Enterprises,” the man said, pulling a sleek card from his pocket. “I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”

Atlan snorted. Of course he had. Carter Enterprises owned half the league, including the Blackhawks, the most lucrative team in the country. The team every player dreamed of joining.

“You scouting me?” Atlan asked bitterly. “Didn’t look like much of a tryout.”

The man’s lips curled faintly. “You fight like a criminal. You play like you’ve got fire in your veins. My employer likes fire. But he also likes control. If you can’t learn the second part…” He slid the card toward him. “…you’ll burn yourself out before your career even begins.”

Atlan’s jaw tightened. “And if I don’t care about control?”

“Then you’ll never set foot on real ice again,” the man replied. “But if you’re willing to leash that temper, you might just catch the attention of someone who could change your life.”

Silence stretched. Only the drip-drip of melting snow filled the air. Atlan glanced down at the card. Embossed letters gleamed: Carter Enterprises. Private Office.

“Not interested. I already have a contract with my team and I can’t stand the Blackhawks. Now if you’d get off my car, I need to leave.” He shoved the card back and slid into the driver’s seat.

The stranger adjusted his coat, already turning to leave. “I know you’re about to be kicked off your team, Wolfe. The Flyers are a backend team. When was the last time they won the Stanley Cup? Or any cup that mattered?”

“I won the Hart’s Cup for most valuable player last year,” Atlan shot back.

The man smirked. “Yeah, but they don’t value you, do they? Think about that. I’ll be in touch. My boss doesn’t take no for an answer.”