10. Connor

If Brooke knew what was good for her, she would obey those texts. I slid my phone back into my pocket with a sense of grim satisfaction. There was a twisted part of me that wished I could witness the look on her face the moment she read them. I imagined her frustration, the anger flashing in those eyes of hers, and it filled me with a bitter sort of triumph. It was petty, perhaps, but after everything, pettiness seemed a small vice to indulge in.

Leaning back in the chair of my office, I found myself enveloped in the silence of the room. Last night, I had slept on the couch, bypassing the comfort of my bed. The why of it nagged at me. Perhaps, in the aftermath of our confrontation, the thought of being anywhere close to her was an easy reminder of when we"d been tangled up together, and the thought of that was too much. There was a danger in those memories, a sweetness that threatened to erode my resolve for revenge. After all, she had played a pivotal role in the unraveling of my career, my reputation—my everything. And for that, she needed to understand that her life, as long as it was intertwined with mine, would be nothing short of hellish.

I sighed, a sound that seemed too loud in the office. The weight of the situation, the complexity of my emotions, felt like heavy padding around my shoulders. Brooke was a constant in my thoughts, an enigma that both infuriated and intrigued me. The anticipation of seeing her again, of facing whatever storm her anger would bring, left me restless.

I needed a distraction. Under normal circumstances, I"d be on the ice—gliding over the surface, the cold air biting at my skin, the world reduced to the sound of my skates against the ice.

But those doors were closed to me now, another casualty of the fallout. Yet, the urge to feel the weight of a puck against my stick, to lose myself in the simple act of shooting pucks into a net, was overwhelming.

I stood up, stretching the stiffness from my muscles, and made a decision. Morgan might let me fire some pucks at an empty net, especially if there wasn't practice. He had been more than just a coach when I was a student here; he"d been a mentor, a guiding force through the best and worst times of my career. If anyone would understand my need for the ice, it would be him. Without another thought, I headed out, the prospect of firing pucks under the watchful eye of a friend offering a brief respite from the chaos Brooke had brought into my life.

After a brisk walk, I arrived at Pandora"s Box, the festive decorations that adorned the entrance and interior confronting me immediately. Tinsel, sparkling lights, and an assortment of Christmas ornaments cluttered the space, casting a cheerful glow that felt almost jarring against the backdrop of my recent life. It was kitschy, almost excessively so, with every corner screaming holiday cheer in a way that made me almost want to roll my eyes.Even so, the sight of the rink, the ice gleaming under the bright lights, drew me in, the familiar anticipation of a game day stirring within me.

As I made my way closer to the rink, the sounds of practice filled the air—the sharp scrape of skates against ice, the distinct clack of sticks, and the occasional shout of instruction or encouragement. The Titans were on the ice, their movements fluid and precise, a testament to their skill and teamwork. Levi Kennedy moved with an agility that was captivating, weaving through defenders with ease before sending a crisp pass to Micchael Carter. Carter, in turn, maneuvered with a calculated grace, his eyes always on the play, always thinking two steps ahead. The puck eventually found its way to the net, only to be expertly blocked by Liam Wolfe, their goalie. Wolfe"s presence in the goal was almost commanding, his reflexes sharp as he deflected shot after shot, his focus unyielding.

Watching them, a sense of nostalgia washed over me. There was a time when I was part of that, part of a team, part of something bigger than myself. The camaraderie, the competition, the sheer thrill of the game—it all came rushing back, a poignant reminder of what I had lost. Kennedy, Carter, Wolfe—they were more than just players on the ice; they represented a world I once knew, a world I was no longer a part of. Despite that, I found a strange comfort in simply being there, a silent observer to the dance of hockey that unfolded before me.

Morgan"s voice cut through the din of the rink, unmistakable and laden with a mix of surprise and amusement. "Well, well, fucking well, look who"s here," he announced, his gaze fixed on me as I lingered by the entrance. "If it isn't Fury fucking Bradley himself. Want to suit up and show these brats how to really play?"

"Is that even allowed?" Damien Sinclaire was easy enough to recognize, with his delicate face and narrowed blue eyes. The fucker looked like a snake and acted like one too. "He might do something that would immediately get him fired from his job."

I couldn"t help but return the smirk. "Oh, I"m not going anywhere," I said. "The dean and I have an arrangement." Which was true. "But if you"re scared of an old man on the ice, I get it."

Damien"s chuckle in response was a clear acknowledgment of the challenge.

"Get dressed," Morgan said, a note of command in his voice that brooked no argument. "And then come out here." His directive was all the encouragement I needed.

I found my equipment exactly where I"d left it, in the coaching locker room, a hopeful precaution for a day I wasn"t sure would ever come. Now, pulling on my gear felt like donning armor, each piece a step closer to reclaiming a part of myself I thought I"d lost.

As I laced up my skates and adjusted my pads, the familiar weight of the equipment settled around me like a second skin. It had been too long since I"d been suited up, ready to step onto the ice, ready to lose myself in the game that was once my entire world. The anticipation built with every piece of gear I put on, a mixture of excitement and a poignant reminder of what had been stripped away from me. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Stepping onto the ice, the familiar chill of the rink embraced me. As I pushed off, the first glide felt like crossing a threshold back into a world I had been exiled from. Each stroke of my skates against the slick surface, each burst of cold air against my face, it all felt like coming home. The ice was where I belonged, where every worry, every complication of my life off the rink melted away, leaving behind only the purity of the game and the freedom of movement. It was a sensation I hadn"t realized I"d missed so profoundly until that very moment. The rhythm of my skates carving into the ice, the sound echoing through the arena, was a melody to my soul, a reminder of simpler times.

I picked up speed, weaving through imaginary defenders, and the muscle memory kicked in, my body remembering patterns and plays I thought I had forgotten. The weight of the puck on my stick, the anticipation of the shot, the exhilaration of the chase—it all flooded back, filling me with a sense of completeness I hadn"t felt in months.

With each lap, each drill, the sense of displacement that had dogged me since my departure from professional hockey began to dissipate. Here, in this moment, I wasn"t Connor Bradley, the man with a tarnished reputation and a life in turmoil. I was simply a hockey player, alive in the dance of blades and ice, where every pass, every shot, every save was an homage to the love of the game that had shaped my very being.

"Do yourselves a favor and watch Bradley," Morgan called out, his voice cutting through the cold air of the rink. "Speed and agility, sure, he"s got that. But what makes him so damn successful is his grit." I circled back, slowing to listen as Morgan continued, "He"s not afraid to get in the creases, to put his body on the line by getting into position. And he gets in the heads of his opponents by finding their weaknesses and exploiting them." I couldn"t help but crack a small smile, pride mingling with nostalgia at Morgan"s description.

"Yeah, but doesn"t that cross some kind of line?" Michael Carter challenged, skepticism clear in his tone.

Morgan"s response was swift and firm, "We aren"t here to make friends, Carter. We"re here to win. Bradley knows what it"s like to win. He won a Cup with the Serpents his rookie year."

"He also got fired from the Serpents two years ago for inappropriate behavior," Sinclair pointed out with obvious glee. The jab was expected, but no less obnoxious.

"Like you"re one to talk, Sinclaire," Kennedy said, face surly.

"Defending your would-be teammate, Kennedy?" Sinclaire asked. "Then again, he"d know a thing or two about inappropriate behavior, wouldn"t he, Mathers?"

"Shut up, Sinclair," Henry Mathers growled.

"You think you"ll play again?" Carter"s question hung in the air, curiosity and a hint of respect weaving through his words.

"The guy just got divorced," Sinclaire said through amused laughter. "Let him figure out his life, Carter. We all can"t be Number 2"s."

"That"s right," Kennedy chimed in, a smirk in his voice. "Weren't you drafted seventeen or something?"

Sinclaire merely shrugged, unbothered. "I got drafted," Damien said simply. "That"s all I care about."

"Shut up and get to the showers, boys," he said, "and come back here tomorrow to play." As they left the ice, he turned to me with an almost challenging look. "Want to shoot before the Zamboni gets here?"

"Sure," I replied, accepting the stick Morgan offered.

A familiar calm enveloped me. Skating towards the open net, I lost myself in the motion, the puck gliding over the ice with each shot. It was like riding a bike—every movement felt fluid, natural. My body remembered the dance, the precision of the shot, the way the stick felt in my hands.

In that moment, I was reminded of the simplicity of the game, the pure joy of playing. Everything else—the complications, the losses, the battles—fell away, leaving only the ice, the puck, and the net. It was a return to a natural state, a reminder that, despite everything, this—hockey—was like breathing to me.

For a solid five minutes, I immersed myself in the routine of shooting, the echo of the puck against the boards a familiar soundtrack to the rhythm I found on the ice. When the horn buzzed, signaling the Zamboni"s readiness to take over, Morgan and I stepped off the ice together, the moment of tranquility giving way to the inevitable return to reality.

"Sorry to hear about your divorce," Morgan said, breaking the silence that had settled between us.

"I"m not," I responded without hesitation. "We"ve been separated for years. This was just the legality of it all." The words came out sharper than I intended, a defense against the sympathy I didn"t feel I deserved.

Morgan gave me a long look, one that seemed to see through the facade. "You think you"ll ever get married again?" he asked, a question that seemed simple but carried the weight of complexities I wasn"t prepared to unpack.

For some inexplicable reason, Brooke"s image flashed in my mind, unsettling me with its intensity. I shook off the thought as quickly as it came.

"Fuck no," I declared, a bit more vehemently than necessary. "I picked the wrong one the first time. There"s no way I"m going to try again. Not with the way she"s trying to sink her claws into my bank account." The bitterness in my voice surprised me.

"At least you didn"t have kids," Morgan mused, his tone shifting to something more reflective. "I never married, but man, I can"t help but wonder where I"d be if I thought with my head and not my dick. One-night stand turned into forever. I don"t regret my kid, but... Her influence on him has wrecked any chance that we could have at an actual relationship."

"Didn"t you sleep with his girlfriend?" I couldn"t resist asking.

"I didn"t know her and she didn"t know me," Morgan defended, his voice tinged with regret. "I wouldn"t have, if I knew, but Nick doesn"t talk to me, remember? And anyway, she says they broke up. It"s just another excuse for him to be a victim." He glanced over at me, changing the subject. "One of my players got married last month."

"Really?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.

"Wolfe," Morgan revealed. "He says it"s because he didn"t want her with anyone else. Can you believe it?"

Once again, Brooke invaded my thoughts, her presence unwelcome yet undeniable. The possessiveness I felt, the desire to keep her close despite everything, mirrored Morgan"s words more closely than I cared to admit.

"No," I lied, even as the truth of my own feelings gnawed at me. "I don"t understand that."

But the problem was, I did understand. Deep down, in a place I wasn"t ready to explore, I understood all too well.