HARDIN's POV.
THREE YEARS BACK.
The rink had been my safe place for as long as I could remember.
Skiing across the ice with the hockey stick in my hand, the cold air burning through my lungs as I refused to take my eyes off the puck.
"Hardin! Left!" Marcus yelled.
"I've got it!" I said back to him. "You literally don't." He scoffed when the defenseman stole the puck clean off my stick. He buried his face in his hands when the coach blew his whistle.
Luckily, it was just practice but Coach Terry didn't hide the disappointment in his eyes when I pulled towards the stands.
"West!" He called out to me. I exchanged a glance with Marcus as I chugged down a bottle of water. When I approached Coach, I tossed it to the sidelines.
"You've got talent, West." Coach usually said.
"But talent
