Collide

f i f t e e n

Sloane

The rink is alive with the usual morning hustle, players lacing up their skates, chatting in low voices, the sharp sound of sticks hitting the ice reverberating through the space. I've come to love this time of day, the quiet intensity that settles over everything just before practice begins. But today, there's an undercurrent of something else—something I can't quite put my finger on.

As I finish setting up the treatment room, organizing the supplies, and reviewing the day's schedule, I can't shake the feeling that something is a bit off. Maybe it's the way the players are moving, a little more sluggish than usual, or the way the air seems thicker, heavy with unspoken tension. Or maybe it's the fact that Malachi isn't out there with them.

I saw him when I walking in earlier. He's on the sidelines today, standing just behind the bench with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes following every movement on the ice with laser focus. Even from across the rink, I can see the frustration etched into his features, the way his jaw tightens every time one of his teammates fumbles the puck or misses a pass. It's like he's itching to jump in, to take control and do it all himself, but he's stuck there, watching, waiting.

My chest tightens at the sight. I know how much this must be killing him, how much he hates being sidelined, especially now, when the team is gearing up for one of their toughest games of the season. But he's doing his best to hide it, to keep that frustration under wraps and focus on coaching. And he's good at it, I have to admit. The players listen to him, respect him, and I can see the way they respond to his guidance, the way their movements become sharper, more deliberate, under his watchful eye.

But it's not enough. Not for him.

I watch as he paces back and forth, his gaze never leaving the ice, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He's trying to keep it together, but I can see the cracks starting to form, the way his control is slipping little by little. He wants to be out there, skating with them, leading them by example, not just by words. And the fact that he can't—at least not for the next two weeks—is eating away at him.

I know I need to talk to him, to check in and see how he's handling things, but the thought of approaching him right now feels like walking into a minefield. He's never been the easiest person to deal with, and I've seen firsthand how quickly his temper can flare when he's frustrated. But I also know that this is part of my job—helping him get through this, whether he wants my help or not.

Taking a deep breath, I leave the treatment room and make my way across the rink, my footsteps echoing against the cold concrete. The players are deep into their drills, the sound of skates carving into the ice filling the air, and I can feel the tension rolling off Malachi in waves as I approach.

"Hey," I say softly, coming to a stop beside him. "How's it going?"

He doesn't look at me, his eyes still locked on the ice. "Fine," he mutters, his tone clipped. "They're doing fine."