Weights clank against their cradles, sneakers squeak on rubber flooring, and the guttural symphony of grown men pushing themselves to the edge fills every corner of the Snow Leopards' elite training complex.
I'm not part of it, of course.
I'm off to the side, perched on a foam mat like a goddamn kindergartner at nap time. I've been looping a resistance band around my ankle while Willa Jameson watches me for half an hour now.
"Alright, now do the left leg again. Twenty reps. Slowly." Willa crosses her arms and gives me the look—the one that saysI know you're about to half-ass this, and I will end you."And when I say slowly, I mean it. Not whatever that speed-demon nonsense was on the last set."
"That wascontrolled power, Willa."
"That was you trying to finish early so you could go bother Samuel."
She's not wrong. I can see him over at the squat rack, headphones in, jaw set, looking like a recruitment poster for the NHL. I've got a solid bit planned about his new beard that I've been workshopping in my head for forty minutes.
"Twenty reps," she repeats, tapping her pen against her tablet like a metronome. "Left leg. If I see you compensating with your hip again, I'm adding ten."
"You know, most people lead with positive reinforcement. A 'great job, Colt.' A 'wow, your calves look incredible today, Colt.' Maybe a little gold star on my sticker chart."
Willa doesn't even blink. "You want a gold star, earn it. Left leg. Now."
I loop the band around my ankle and start pulling. Slowly.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the mountains glow white with fresh morning snow. The view is stunning in here. Postcard-worthy. The kind of thing that makes tourists weep and real estate agents salivate.
But sitting back in this room, working out with the guys… I know I'd trade it all for fifteen minutes of full-contact practice.
Samuel moves over to the bench press, driving the bar up with the kind of controlled fury that makes his veins pop like roadmaps. Gabe is attacking the heavy bag in the corner, each impact sending a deepthwackthat I feel right in the back of my darkest memories.
And Cade…
Cade is doing something with a pair of kettlebells that involves way too much spinning and not nearly enough actual exercise.
I drag the band against the burn in my left leg, going slow like Willa demanded, and let myself just… sit in it.
I've loved this my whole life.
The locker room banter, the team breakfasts, the chirping, the bruises.
It's been my family. My identity.
From the first time my dad laced my skates at four years old, hockeywasme. And since the injury, it's felt like three weeks alone in my apartment just went and ripped it all away.
I knew I'd be back eventually, but twenty-one days of silence and trying to remember what I sounded like when there wasn't an audience… that was tough.
It was the first time in my life I had to think about who Colt Lane was without a jersey on his back.
Now sitting on this foam mat, watching my brothers grind through their morning lift while Willa hovers over me like an extremely polite drill sergeant?
Yeah. It's good to be back.
Even if Coach is pacing the perimeter of the room like a wolf who hasn't eaten in a week.
"JENSEN!" Coach Ashford's voice cracks through the Clawhouse like a whip. He's stalking between stations in his Snow Leopards jacket, clipboard in hand, radiating the energy of a man who hasn't slept enough and trusts no one. "LESS SHOWBOATING, MORE LIFTING. Game's in two days, gentlemen. Act like it."
Cade catches my eye mid-swing and grins when Coach shifts his attention to yell at someone else.
"So, Lane… You done playing baker boy yet? We could use you out there."
I force a grin back, ignoring the twist in my gut. "Miss me that much, Jensen?"