Skating on thin hearts

Chapter 7- Practice

Atlan walked into the rink with his duffel bag slung lazily over his shoulder. The past few days had been a blur, and he was more than ready to get back to the one thing that grounded him, hockey.

The sharp blast of a whistle echoed across the rink. “Time off!” Coach Miller barked, and the players skated off, some gulping water, others catching their breath on the bench. The coach spotted Atlan lingering by the boards and strode over, his gaze sharp.

“Wolfe,” Coach Miller said, extending a firm hand. Atlan shook it, feeling the weight of the coach’s stare. “You’re late. First day of practice, and you walk in after the whistle.”

Atlan scratched the back of his neck, trying for casual. “Yeah, sorry about that. My alarm didn’t go off.”

Coach Miller didn’t flinch. His tone was clipped, measured. “This isn’t the Flyers, son. We run on discipline here. If practice starts at ten, you’re on the ice at ten. Understood?”

Atlan shifted uncomfortably as he realized every pair of eyes in the rink was fixed on him. “Yes,” he muttered.

The coach’s brow lifted. “Yes who?”

Atlan straightened, forcing his voice louder. “Yes, Coach.”

Perfect. Day one and he’d already made a scene. Typical Atlan Wolfe behavior.

“Bryan!” Coach Miller called.

From the bench, a broad-shouldered player stood and made his way over, carrying himself with the easy confidence of someone used to being in charge. He clasped Atlan’s hand firmly.

“Atlan, this is Bryan, the captain of the Blackhawks,” Coach Miller introduced. Then, turning to Bryan, he added, “This is our new recruit. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

Bryan gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Welcome to the team.”

“Come on,” Bryan said, jerking his head toward the tunnel. “I’ll show you the locker room.”

Atlan fell into step behind him, acutely aware of the stares still lingering on his back.

Coach Miller’s whistle pierced the rink.

“Alright, boys! Circle up. This isn’t a goddamn charity case, Wolfe’s here to play, not to be babysat. Treat him like anyone else. Bryan, you’re leading the drill.”

Bryan, gave Atlan a curt nod before skating to the center. His presence was commanding, not loud, but enough that the rest of the team fell into line, Marcus with his easy grin, Greg cracking his neck like a prizefighter, Harry adjusting his gloves, Ben tapping his stick impatiently, and Mark already muttering something under his breath about rookies.

“Warm-up laps,” Bryan barked. “Let’s move!”

They shot off, blades carving into the ice in synchronized strides. Atlan pushed hard, testing his stamina against theirs. He could feel the eyes on him, measuring, judging. By the second lap, Marcus drifted beside him, smirking.

“Relax, Wolfe. You skate like someone’s chasing you.”

“Maybe they are,” Atlan shot back, picking up the pace.

The whistle shrilled again. “Puck handling!” Coach Miller’s voice carried across the ice. “Bryan, Harry, feed him!”

Harry slid the puck toward Atlan. He snatched it cleanly with the blade of his stick, weaving between cones with sharp, aggressive movements. His control was flawless, but his intensity was almost feral, every slap of the puck against the ice echoing like a challenge.

“Easy, Wolfe!” Bryan called. “You’re not in a goddamn bar fight.”

Atlan ignored him and drove harder, flipping the puck past the last cone before taking a blistering shot at the net. The puck slammed against the top corner, rattling the mesh.

Ben let out a low whistle. “Well, s**t. Guess he wasn’t all hype.”

But not everyone was impressed. Mark skated up close, shoving his shoulder into Atlan’s as he passed. “Yeah, but can you play nice with a team? Or are you just here to showboat?”

Atlan’s jaw tightened, heat rushing up his neck. “Say that again.”

Before Mark could answer, Coach Miller blew the whistle, sharp and furious. “Cut the crap! This isn’t kindergarten. You want to fight, do it on your own damn time. Next drill, scrimmage. Bryan, you pick sides.”

Bryan didn’t hesitate. “Me, Greg, Harry, Ben. Other side, Atlan, Marcus, Mark.”

The scrimmage was brutal. Atlan tore across the ice with reckless speed, crashing into Mark more than once, neither willing to give ground. Marcus tried to balance the chaos, calling plays, but Atlan was fire unchecked, his shot after shot hammering the goalie until sweat stung his eyes and his lungs burned.

Finally, in the last play, he broke through the defense, stealing the puck from Greg with a brutal check. He charged the net, stick snapping forward.

The puck soared and slammed into the back of the net.

He ripped off his helmet, chest heaving. For a moment, silence stretched across the rink. Then Marcus whooped, raising his stick. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Even Bryan, cool and steady, gave a grudging nod. “Not bad, Wolfe.”

Coach Miller skated up, his gaze sharp as steel. “Not bad doesn’t cut it. You’ve got fire, Wolfe. But if you can’t control it, you’ll burn this team to the ground. You want a spot on my ice? Learn to play with your brothers or you’ll be packing your bags before the season starts.”

Atlan wiped the sweat from his brow, locking eyes with the coach.

“Then I guess I better learn fast.”

“Yeah, you better do,” a voice rang out behind him.

Even in his sleep, Atlan would never mistake that voice. The CEO who thought he could be witty.

James Carter.

Atlan stiffened as James walked across the rink, his polished shoes clicking against the floor, an air of authority following him like a shadow.

“Hello, Coach,” James greeted, offering a tight smile. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to take a good look at my investments.”

Atlan let out a quiet scoff. “Investments, huh,” he muttered under his breath.

Coach Miller’s sharp eyes flicked to him in warning before turning back to James. “No problem, Mr. Carter. We’re just testing out our new recruit here, giving him a feel of the Blackhawks.”

James’s gaze shifted toward Atlan, studying him like a specimen under glass. “So, how’s he doing so far?”

“So far, so good,” Coach Miller replied. “He’s running on first-day adrenaline, but we’ll see how he holds up. We’ve got the Titans game next week, stats will tell us everything.”

“Good, good,” James murmured, nodding with satisfaction. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black card. With deliberate ease, he handed it to Atlan.

“When you’re off the ice, message me. We have some things to discuss.” His voice was calm but carried an undertone that hinted this wasn’t a request.

Atlan stared at the card in his hand, jaw tightening, as James Carter turned and strode out of the rink without another word.