41

KANE B reathe. Inhale. Exhale. Relax. Lean into the pain. My wrists burn where the chains cut into them, my arms stretched tight above me, my own weight pulling at my shoulders. With every involuntary tremor that runs through my body, iron digs into my flesh. The basement I’m hanging in swallows me whole, the cold biting into my skin. The stone walls are damp, reeking of mildew and the heavy smell of rusted metal. As for the reason why I’m here—again—it’s simple. Tonight, we lost our away game. The Vipers lost a clean winning streak. Against the Stanton fucking Wolves. To say the team’s morale is in the absolute gutter would be an understatement. This was due to a culmination of unfortunate facts. One, I wasn’t focused, and while my body existed on the rink, my mental presence suffered greatly. The immaculate discipline I’ve spent over fifteen years honing to perfection has chipped at the edges, small cracks appearing on the foundation. Two, perhaps it was the lack of my assertive lead