𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭

two

Kaiden

The alarm is brutal, blaring at 5:30 a.m. I slap it off, eyes still half-shut, and groan before dragging myself out of bed. It's early, but that's life. I sit up, run a hand through my hair, and shake off the sleep.

The room is cold, but I don't really care. I grab my duffel bag from the corner, packed with hockey gear the night before, and swing it over my shoulder. The thing weighs a ton, but I'm used to it. My life revolves around this bag and what it holds—my skates, pads, helmet, jersey. It's all part of the grind.

I make my way across campus in the dark. There's something nice about the quiet of early mornings, like the world is holding its breath. By the time I reach the rink, the team's already there, a mix of grumbles and yawns as they lace up their skates. The rink is a perfect sheet of ice, waiting for us to cut it up, and that thought wakes me up. It's not just practice; it's where I get to push my body, test myself, throw around some punches if the coach isn't looking.

Practice starts off slow—basic drills to get us moving. We run through skating drills, weaving between cones, picking up speed, testing our agility. I push hard, my skates slicing the ice as I pick up speed, loving the burn in my legs. We split into pairs for passing drills, the puck sliding back and forth, the sharp crack of sticks hitting ice. I work with the boys, passing with precision, even throwing in a few fancy spins just to show off. Coach gives me a look, but I catch his grin. He knows I'm cocky, and he knows I'll push myself harder because of it.

We run practice matches, dividing up into teams. It's fast, physical, and I'm all in. My adrenaline spikes as we move up and down the ice, stickhandling around opponents, feeling that rush every time the puck's at my feet.

I take a hit from one of the defensemen, feeling the shock in my ribs, but I shake it off and laugh. Part of me loves the pain—the reminder that I'm alive, pushing past what I think I can do.

By the time Coach finally calls it, I'm soaked with sweat, muscles aching in the best way. It's brutal, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The locker room's loud and full of chatter as we throw around towels and trash talk each other, recounting the hits, the goals, the almost-fights. After a quick, scalding shower, I throw on a hoodie and some sweats, running my fingers through my wet hair as I get my bag together. I sling it back over my shoulder, nodding to a few of the guys before heading to my first lecture.

Classes are... alright. I'm not dumb, but academics don't exactly light a fire under me. I sit in the back, tuning in just enough to catch what's needed and save the rest for later.

My mind drifts now and then, thinking about practice, the next game, wondering if I can squeeze in some extra rink time. My family's got a lot invested in sports—enough that I know they're banking on me to go pro, and sometimes that thought pushes me as hard as any coach.

After class, I meet up with a few of the guys. We're all piled around a table in the student union, talking over each other about last night, today's practice, and the weekend plans. Most of the conversation's pure garbage—someone retelling some awful date, another talking about the girl he's "definitely" getting with this week.

I throw in some laughs, adding to the stories, enjoying the easy camaraderie. I'm known here, well-liked, but I don't kid myself—I know why they hang around.

It's not just me. It's what I do, the games I play, the parties I hit up. But it's fun. The noise and the chaos are a welcome distraction, and for a few minutes, I can let go of everything else.

The gym is next. I throw on my gear, slap on my headphones, and head into the weight room. An hour, minimum—that's the deal I've made with myself, day in and day out.

It's packed, but I weave through the people, dropping into my routine. The weights are a challenge, a fight I can win, the burn in my arms, legs, chest grounding me as I push past my limits. I lose track of everything, my mind focused only on the weights, the rhythm of lifting, the sheer satisfaction of feeling my muscles work.

By the time I finish, I'm starving and exhausted, the kind of tired that feels earned. I make my way back to my place, and everything's quiet by the time I crash down on my bed, muscles heavy, mind buzzing with all that's left to do.

This life—it's intense, relentless, but it's mine, and I wouldn't have it any other way.