Chapter 93

A week slipped by like melting ice under skates, and Thursday arrived. I stood at the edge of the ice, lacing up my skates. I didn't want to think about Garcia. I wanted to keep myself busy with my training. I took a deep breath, the chill of the rink settling into my lungs like a bracing slap. It cleared my mind—almost. Throwing myself into the grind, I skated across the ice at full speed, weaving through cones with sharp precision. The sound of blades carving through ice echoed around the rink as I tightened my turns, faster and sharper than the week before. Every slap of the puck against my stick, every controlled stop that sent sprays of frost into the air, was my way of drowning out the shadow of Garcia that still loomed in the back of my mind. Coach whistled sharply. "Zane, keep that up—your recovery is ahead of schedule. You are sharper than before your injury." I gave a small nod, sweat glistening along my temple despite the chill. I didn't answer. I simply reset the drill and