Chapter 3 - Evan

Suspension tastes like metal. That’s the only way I can describe it, that bitter, coppery tang that sits on your tongue when you’re trying not to punch a wall. Or someone’s face. Or your own reflection.

Three weeks ago, I walked out of the league office with a two‑game suspension and a fine big enough to make my coach swear under his breath. “Conduct unbecoming,” they called it. “Unnecessary aggression.”

Funny how they left out the part where I stepped in because a teammate was being cornered by a drunk fan who thought “trash talk” included threats about his sister.

But whatever. The league didn’t want the details. They wanted a headline. So I gave them one. Now I’m back on the ice, finally, and the cold feels like a slap I’ve been craving.

“Again,” Coach yells from the boards.

I dig my blades in and sprint down the rink, lungs burning, legs screaming. The puck hits my stick, and I fire it into the net with enough force to rattle the frame.

“Good,” he says. “Keep that fire where it belongs.”

I know what he means. Everyone does.

I’m loud. I’m bold. I’m the guy who chirps the refs and shoves first when someone gets too close to my goalie. I’ve always been that guy. But lately… it’s been different. Sharper. Hotter. Harder to control.

“Hey,” Mason calls as he skates up beside me. “You good?”

“Peachy.”

He snorts. “You look like you’re trying to murder the ice.”

“Maybe I am.”

He bumps my shoulder. “We’ve got your back, man. You know that.”

I do. My team never questioned me. Not once. They knew why I stepped in. They knew what I was protecting. They knew I wasn’t the villain the league painted me as.

But knowing it and feeling it are two different things. Practice ends, and I stay behind, skating laps until the rink empties. The quiet settles around me, thick and familiar. I’ve always liked the rink after hours, the hum of the lights, the echo of my blades, the way the cold sinks into my bones and makes everything else fade.

It reminds me of high school. Of late nights sneaking onto the ice. Of a girl with quiet eyes and steady hands. Of the way she used to watch me skate like she saw something in me no one else did.

Lena.

I haven’t thought about her in a while. Not really. Not in a way that mattered. But sometimes, when the rink is empty and the world is quiet, her face slips in like a ghost. The shy smile. The soft voice. The way she’d flinch when people talked too loud, and the way I’d talk louder just to see her roll her eyes.

I was an idiot back then.

I’m still an idiot now, just a bigger one with better skates.

I skate another lap, pushing harder, faster, until my legs shake. The suspension is over, but the anger isn’t. It sits under my skin, buzzing, waiting for an excuse.

“Evan!” Coach calls from the tunnel. “Hit the showers. You’re done for today.”

I slow to a stop, chest heaving. “Yeah. Coming.”

As I step off the ice, I glance toward the entrance of the rink, the same one she used to walk through after school, clutching her skates to her chest like they were made of glass. I don’t know why I think of her now. Maybe because the ice is quiet. Maybe because I’m tired. Maybe because some ghosts never really leave.

I grab my bag and head to the locker room, shaking off the thought. Silver Ridge is small, sure. But not small enough for old memories to walk back into my life. At least… that’s what I think. For now.