Jason's POV
Practice was brutal that morning—the coach had us running drills until my muscles burned and sweat poured down my face. But it felt good, the familiar rhythm of physical exertion clearing my head of everything except the immediate demands of the workout.
Noah and I were sparring—stick work, footwork, the kind of conditioning that kept us sharp for actual games—when Jensen walked onto the ice.
He wasn't in gear, just standing at the edge of the rink in his street clothes, and something about his expression made my stomach drop even before he opened his mouth.
"Jason," he called out. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
Coach gave me a nod, and I skated over, already bracing for bad news. Jensen had that look—the one that said he knew something I wasn't going to wan
