Jason Todd | Red Hood

The Gotham Coliseum was dead quiet, the way it only ever was on a closed practice day... No roaring crowds, no blaring music, just the crisp sound of skates cutting ice and pucks smacking against boards. It was my favourite kind of noise. I leaned against the boards, catching my breath, watching the guys run drills. Bruce had us doing these brutal defensive transition exercises, which for a forward like me meant a lot of stopping and starting until my thighs burned. My gear felt heavier than usual.

My head just wasn’t in it today... It hadn’t been for a week, not since the last game against Central City. We’d won, 3-1, solid enough. But I’d gone 0-for-5 on shots. Five clear looks, and every single one had missed by a hair... pinged off the post, whistled wide, got swallowed up by the goalie’s pad. It was a statistical fluke, but it felt personal. The highlight reels called it “Red Hood’s Off Night” but the comments sections had other, less kind names for it. I kept seeing that last wide shot in my head, over and over.

“Todd! Eyes on!” Coach Wayne’s voice, flat and cold, cut across the ice. He was standing at centre, arms crossed, looking more like a disapproving statue than a man.

I pushed off the boards, joining the next wave. The drill was simple, receive a pass at the blue line, drive towards the net, but then drop it back for the trailing defenseman. Simple. My linemate, Carter, fed me a perfect pass. I caught it clean, my skates digging in as I charged towards the makeshift net marked by cones. The motion was muscle memory. But my brain flickered back to that Metropolis goalie, to the inch of space I’d missed. I hesitated for a half-second, my stick fumbling the puck.

Instead of dropping it back cleanly for Alexi, I lost control. The puck skittered away from me. I lunged for it, my body twisting automatically, but my focus was shot. I didn’t see Leo cutting in from my blind side, finishing his part of the drill.

My shoulder connected with his chest at full speed. It wasn’t a check, just a clumsy collision. The sound was awful, a crunch of padding and a sharp gasp of air forced from lungs. Leo, a big guy but caught completely off guard, went down hard, sprawling onto the ice with a heavy thud that echoed in the empty arena. His stick clattered away.

Everything stopped. The drill died. All you could hear was Leo’s groaning as he tried to sit up. Shit... I skated over, already knowing what was coming. “Hey, man. You good? Sorry, that was my bad. Totally my bad...”

Leo just waved a gloved hand, coughing. “Wind’s gone, Todd. Thanks for that.” I deserve his sarcasm. I offered a hand to help him up, but a shadow fell over us both. Bruce didn’t need to raise his voice. The temperature around him just dropped. “Todd. Off the ice. Now.”

“Coach, it was an accid—”

“It was a lack of focus. You’ve been a liability this entire week. You’re no good to anyone like this. Off. Cool down. We’ll talk later.” His tone left no room for argument. It was the same tone he used when a play was fundamentally, unforgivably ruined.

A hot flush of embarrassment and anger went through me. I just nodded stiffly, avoiding the looks from the other guys, Tim’s analytical stare, Thomas’s concerned glance. I skated to the bench, the shame burning. I unlaced my skates with more force than necessary, threw my gear into my stall, and stalked out of the players’ box in just my practice jersey, sweatpants, and sneakers.

The concrete corridors of the Coliseum were cool and dark, a stark contrast to the bright ice. I was headed for the rink's gym, planning to take my frustration out on a punching bag, my mind still a chaotic loop of missed shots and that stupid collision. I turned a corner towards the private training wing, not really looking where I was going.

Boom, for the second time today I walked straight into someone.

It wasn’t a big impact from my side, but I was a lot bigger and definitely moving with more frustrated momentum. The person let out a surprised sound and went down pretty hard. You'd think I'd have learned to check where I was going...

I blinked, staring down. The Coliseum was supposed to be sealed tight today. No press, no fans, no one. “What the hell?” I muttered, more to myself than to them. My brain was still half on the ice. For a second, I just stood there, looking at the person on the ground. This was the last thing I needed.

Finally, I shook my head, the frustration shifting into a dull, apologetic annoyance. “Hey. Sorry about that. Wasn’t watching where I was going.” I bent down, offering a hand to help them up. My voice was not exactly friendly. “You okay? How’d you even get in here? This area’s closed.”

The Gotham Coliseum was dead quiet, the way it only ever was on a closed practice day. No roaring crowds, no blaring music, just the crisp sound of skates cutting ice and pucks smacking against boards. It was Jason’s favourite kind of noise. He leaned against the boards, catching his breath, watching the guys run drills. Bruce had them doing brutal defensive transition exercises, which for a forward like Jason meant a lot of stopping and starting until his thighs burned. His gear felt heavier than usual.

His head just wasn’t in it today. It hadn’t been for a week, not since the last game against Central City. They’d won, 3-1, solid enough. But Jason had gone 0-for-5 on shots. Five clear looks, and every single one had missed by a hair, pinged off the post, whistled wide, gotten swallowed up by the goalie’s pad. It was a statistical fluke, but it felt personal. The highlight reels called it “Red Hood’s Off Night” but the comments sections had other, less kind names for it. He kept seeing that last wide shot in his head, over and over.

“Todd! Eyes on!” Coach Wayne’s voice, flat and cold, cut across the ice. He was standing at centre, arms crossed, looking more like a disapproving statue than a man.

Jason pushed off the boards, joining the next wave. The drill was simple: receive a pass at the blue line, drive towards the net, but then drop it back for the trailing defenseman. Simple. His linemate, Carter, fed him a perfect pass. Jason caught it clean, his skates digging in as he charged towards the makeshift net marked by cones. The motion was muscle memory. But his brain flickered back to that Metropolis goalie, to the inch of space he’d missed. He hesitated for a half-second, his stick fumbling the puck.

Instead of dropping it back cleanly for Alexi, he lost control. The puck skittered away. Jason lunged for it, his body twisting automatically, but his focus was shot. He didn’t see Leo cutting in from his blind side, finishing his part of the drill.

Jason’s shoulder connected with Leo’s chest at full speed. It wasn’t a check, just a clumsy collision. The sound was awful, a crunch of padding and a sharp gasp of air forced from lungs. Leo, a big guy but caught completely off guard, went down hard, sprawling onto the ice with a heavy thud that echoed in the empty arena. His stick clattered away.

Everything stopped. The drill died. All you could hear was Leo’s groaning as he tried to sit up. Jason skated over, already knowing what was coming. “Hey, man. You good? Sorry, that was my bad. Totally my bad...”

Leo just waved a gloved hand, coughing. “Wind’s gone, Todd. Thanks for that.” Jason deserved the sarcasm. He offered a hand to help him up, but a shadow fell over them both. Bruce didn’t need to raise his voice. The temperature around him just dropped. “Todd. Off the ice. Now.”

“Coach, it was an accid—”

“It was a lack of focus. You’ve been a liability this entire week. You’re no good to anyone like this. Off. Cool down. We’ll talk later.” The tone left no room for argument. It was the same tone Bruce used when a play was fundamentally, unforgivably ruined.

A hot flush of embarrassment and anger went through Jason. He just nodded stiffly, avoiding the looks from the other guys, Tim’s analytical stare, Thomas’s concerned glance. He skated to the bench, the shame burning. He unlaced his skates with more force than necessary, threw his gear into his stall, and stalked out of the players’ box in just his practice jersey, sweatpants, and sneakers.

The concrete corridors of the Coliseum were cool and dark, a stark contrast to the bright ice. He was headed for the rink's gym, planning to take his frustration out on a punching bag, his mind still a chaotic loop of missed shots and that stupid collision. He turned a corner towards the private training wing, not really looking where he was going.

For the second time that day, he walked straight into someone.

It wasn’t a big impact from his side, but he was a lot bigger and definitely moving with more frustrated momentum. The person let out a surprised sound and went down pretty hard. Jason blinked, staring down. The Coliseum was supposed to be sealed tight today. No press, no fans, no one. “What the hell?” he muttered, more to himself than to them. His brain was still half on the ice. For a second, he just stood there, looking at the person on the ground. This was the last thing he needed.

Finally, he shook his head, the frustration shifting into a dull, apologetic annoyance. “Hey. Sorry about that. Wasn’t watching where I was going.” He bent down, offering a hand to help them up. His voice was not exactly friendly. “You okay? How’d you even get in here? This area’s closed.”