In Sequence | H.S.

11.

TW: Brief mentions of domestic violence & blood.

Harry.

The adrenaline pulsing through my veins became audible the moment I stepped foot into the locker room today. My heartbeat is pounding off of my ear drums, and my lungs keep sucking in a breath of air like I'll run out.

Pre-game anticipation.

The sports psychologist that I used to see said I would probably get pre-game anxiety for a while once I hit the ice again, especially after an injury as fucked up as mine, but half the shit he said was textbook bullshit, not from real experience, so he's not a credible source.

I don't get nervous before a game, and I sure as hell don't get anxious. I wouldn't be on this damn team and ranked so high in the NHL if I did.

But the sweat beading down my forehead is trying to convince me otherwise.

Tonight's a big game. It's Rival's Night and ESPN is set up to air the big game live across their network and do live coverage on all of their platforms - tv, radio, and social media. That means our every move is broadcasted to a wider audience than just the people in the stands. This opens the floor up to spectators from other NHL teams, looking to make a team member trade or judges that will go on to select the NHL's Player of the Year.

I can't fuck up tonight.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my breezers and start lacing up my skates, pushing out slow and stupid exhales to get my heart rate back under control.

"Damn boys! We've gotta traitor walking amongst us!" Ian burst through the locker rooms with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. The grin's hard to miss when just about every tooth in his head has been knocked out by a puck and replaced with the whitest and most expensive porcelain money can buy. Downside of being a goalie, I guess.

But something about the way he was smirking made my gut churn.

He slaps his hand on Mitch's back, standing center of the room to address the team. "Our red hot physical therapist is fraternizing with the enemy." Ian shook his head, half amused and half disappointed by the betrayal. As one of the longer standing members on the team, he took team loyalty to the extreme. "Get this, Styles, you'll love this." Mitch's eyes caught mine as Ian strided in my direction like a college frat boy who downed too many wine coolers. Unfortunately for us, that's just his personality.

He snagged his skates off of the shelf and plopped down next to me. "Preston motherfucking Elliot." His elbow nudged my arm as he let out a long cackle. "Can you believe he's getting it on with our physical therapist in the hallway? He can't stay away from any pretty girl that's within a mile of you."

Every muscle in my body tenses up on me. He lost his right to be around here when he laid a fucking hand on her. "Where are they?" My jaw is clenched so tightly that my words are pushed out through my teeth.

"Probably long gone by now." Ian brushed the conversation off like it was nothing, but my heart rate was accelerating again. I felt a sense of responsibility rush over me, I had to know if Mads was okay. Fuck, I'm a dick for walking away from her earlier.

My eyes were quick to glance up at the clock. Maybe there's still enough time for me to find her.

6:58 PM.

Damn it. We're in the final minutes before we have to hit the rink. I don't have time to send her a text, let alone go seek her out.

Guess this will be something I have to handle on the ice.

___

Vulgar chants clashed with cheers of encouragement as I skated past the right defenseman, puck hugging close to my stick. We're up by one point already, but I'm determined to make this loss brutal for my opponents.