Chapter 8
The locker room’s half-empty when I grab my bag and make my way to the exit, trying to dodge anyone who’d want to chat. No interest in talking tonight.
“Zane!” Caleb’s voice slices through the noise from the guys still showering or goofing around in there. He’s jogging over, looking determined.
I sigh. “What?”
“Where the hell were you yesterday? You missed the team’s whole pre-game prep—”
“Busy,” I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder and taking a step past him. But he grabs my arm, yanking me back.
“Dude, c’mon.” Caleb’s face scrunches up like he’s wounded. “You need to fucking tell me what the hell’s going on and stop leaving me in the dark.”
“You think I’m that dramatic?” I shove his arm off me, shooting him a smirk. “Stop being such a girl.”
Caleb laughs, shoving me back. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t being such an ass.” He shakes his head, letting out a big, dramatic sigh. “Look, Coburn. Just…tell me what’s going on.”
I glance around, checking that no one else is listening, then mutter, “My dad’s in town. The whole month.”
Caleb’s face drops. “Damn. You…uh, need me to come stay with you again?”
I feel this weird warmth in my chest— it’s like a reminder that someone in the world does give a fuck about me. When he stayed with me, that was a nice vacation from reality. But I’d never say that out loud. “Nah. Thanks, though. Let’s just go grab some drinks instead.”
A grin breaks across Caleb’s face. “I can do that.”
The bar’s an old favorite—nothing like the fancy joints around campus, but still the kind of place that knows who we are. We walk in, and within seconds, one of the waitresses spots us, flashing a smile that says she knows exactly what we like.
“Zane. Caleb. Long time,” she says as she hands us a couple of whiskey glasses, full to the brim. I catch Caleb sneaking a look down her shirt, typical of him.
“Yeah, it’s been too long,” I reply, throwing her a smirk. “Miss us?”
She winks. “Maybe. You guys here for the night?”
“We’ll see,” Caleb replies, already scanning the place for anyone he’d like to get close to.
I raise my glass, clinking it against his. “Cheers.”
“Cheers to you finally deciding to get out again.” He takes a long drink, eyeing me over the rim. “So…you going to tell me what’s been going on other than your dad? Or is it just your dad’s bullshit?”
I shrug, taking my own sip. “Just dealing with some things.”
“Some things?” he prods. “Come on, I know you better than that.”
I roll my eyes, feeling his stare drill into me. “So Remy’s mom, right? Works at that hospital?”
“Yeah, sure. Okay. What about it?”
I pause, swirling the whiskey around. “I…maybe pulled some strings. Got her mom a promotion.”
He blinks, shocked. “You did what, dude?”
“Yeah, you heard me. Donated some cash, talked to the right people. They’re treating her mom better now, and Remy’s got one less thing to stress about.”
Caleb’s staring like I’ve just confessed to committing a crime. “Dude…this is next level. You’re not just into this girl. You’re, like… involved. I mean, what the fuck’s going on with you?”
I down the rest of my drink, setting the glass down a little harder than intended. “She’s different. I don’t know, man. It’s like…she’s this damn drug I can’t shake.”
“Shit, Coburn,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Tell me I’m not crazy,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “She’s just—”
“You’re obsessed?”
“Yeah.”
We both sit there in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, and finally Caleb looks over. “Well, on a less obsessive note, the Reaper induction went great, but the new guys are already fiending for another party. Thought they’d pass out with how hard they went at the last one, but apparently not.”
I laugh, grateful for the shift in conversation. “Figures. Alright, let’s give them something to go nuts over. After the next game, we’ll throw something.”
Caleb raises his glass again, grinning. “Now that’s the Coburn I know.
I step through the door, barely dropping my bag before I hear his voice.
“Zane,” my dad calls from the living room, and I already know what’s coming. He’s sitting on the couch with the game highlights rolling on the big screen, barely looking away when I walk in. “Off from practice?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re ready for the game?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my tone casual as I head into the kitchen. I grab a bottle of water and crack it open, taking a long sip. I can feel his eyes on me, sizing me up like he’s still deciding if I’m worth all the time and money he’s thrown into me.
“I’m not missing this one. Already cleared my schedule.” He sounds proud because according to him, my games are the only way he gets to showcase that he is father-of-the-year material.
“Great,” I mutter, twisting the cap back on the bottle.
His gaze sharpens, practically dissecting me. “Stats are up, too. You know what you’re up against?”
“Of course.” I shrug, even though he’s expecting more. He always does. “I’ve seen the film.”
“Then you know they’re tough. Defense is relentless.” His tone is all business, not an ounce of warmth. “Better put everything you’ve got out there. This is the game they’ll remember.”
I glance down, swallowing hard. “Yeah, Dad. I know.”
“Good.” He leans back, finally breaking his stare. “Next season, the scouts won’t just look at potential. They’re looking for winners. Think about that.”
I nod, even though I don’t need the reminder. I’ve been hearing it my whole life.
After a minute, I mumble, “I’ll be in my room,” and make my way down the hall. Once the door closes behind me, I exhale, letting the tension slip for a second. It’s always the same thing—talk of the NHL, the stats, the scouts. The future he’s been planning for me since I was old enough to hold a stick. I sit on the edge of my bed, running my hands over my face, letting my head fall back.
Remy’s face flashes in my mind, her soft eyes, the way she always bites her lip when she’s thinking. For a second, I think about driving over to see her, just for a few minutes. But I shake it off. I need to stay focused, and she’s the last thing I should be thinking about before a game. I need to concentrate.
The next day at practice, Coach Jacobs is barking orders, but there’s this grin on his face like he knows we’ve got this one in the bag.
“You guys are ready,” he says, pacing in front of us after drills. “We’ve got all the firepower, the speed. This is our game to lose.”
He claps his hands, signaling the end of practice, and I’m feeling that high, the one you get when you know you’re in sync with the whole team. I’m still buzzing with it when I spot Caleb waiting for me by the doors, and just beyond him, Remy and Maya, talking by the bleachers.
Remy’s got an oversized sweater on that slides off her shoulder, showing just a hint of skin, and a short skirt that’s got my thoughts straying. All I can think about is pressing her up against a wall somewhere, getting my hands under that damn sweater, feeling her against me.
“Let’s go talk to them,” Caleb says, nudging me with a grin. He’s practically bouncing.
We walk over, and Caleb’s the first to speak. “Maya, you guys coming to the game tomorrow?”
Maya grins. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
But Remy crosses her arms, giving me a half-smile. “I, uh, won’t be there,” she says, looking almost unapologetic.
My stomach sinks as I eye her up and down. I keep my face blank as I ask, “Why not?”
She shrugs, glancing away. “Busy.”
Her phone rings, saving her from having to elaborate. She mumbles something and steps away, the phone already to her ear.
I turn to Maya, trying to keep my tone casual. “What is she so busy with?”
Maya gives me a knowing look. “It’s her anniversary. Colin’s taking her out for the night.”
Anniversary. With Colin.
It’s like lead settling in my gut, cold and heavy. I feel fucking sick to my stomach.
Maya leans in to give Caleb a quick kiss, and they exchange some hushed words before she waves and heads off. Caleb watches her go, grinning, then turns to me, his expression shifting when he catches my face.
“She’s got a boyfriend, dude.”
“No shit.”
He squints at me. “Alright, well, I’ve got a dinner thing with my old man. But we could meet up and blow off some steam?”
“Nah, I’m alright,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Go deal with your dad. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
He hesitates, but nods, giving me one last glance before he heads out. I watch him leave, alone again with thoughts that only seem to get worse by the second.
By the time I’m home, I’m running hot. I step inside, ready to crash, but my dad’s voice hits me like a bucket of ice water.
“There you are,” he calls from the kitchen. “Get showered and dressed. We’re having dinner with a couple of scouts tonight.”
I freeze, the frustration bubbling over. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” He steps into the hallway, arms crossed, looking me over like I’m some screw-up who needs a lesson. “Do you know how hard it was to line this up?”
“Great. Thanks for setting it up. But maybe I don’t want to go.”
My dad’s face hardens, and his voice drops a notch. “Zane, get showered. You’re going.”
I stand there, letting my irritation slip out. “I just played my ass off at practice, and you want me to schmooze some suits instead of prepping for tomorrow? Isn’t that what you’re always telling me— focus on the game?”
His jaw twitches, and he takes a step forward, looming over me. “You want to talk about focus? I’ve spent years getting you to this point. Years. You’re going.”
“And what if I don’t?” The words are out before I can stop myself.
His face darkens, and without warning, his fist slams into my cheek. Hard. It’s like I’ve been blindsided on the ice. My head jerks to the side, my vision blurs, and I stumble back, barely catching myself against the wall.
There’s a ringing in my ear, and my face throbs as the pain settles in, deep and raw. He’s not usually one to hit, but when he does, he makes sure it counts.
I stand there, too stunned to move, the taste of blood on my tongue. He strides to the freezer, grabs a handful of ice, and tosses it at me, the cubes scattering across the floor.
“Put that on your face,” he says coldly. “And sleep it off. It’s obvious you still have adrenaline to burn.”
My jaw tightens, and I glare at him, feeling the anger churn, hot and dangerous. But I don’t say anything. I know better. Instead, I scoop up the ice, pressing it against my cheek as I head to my room.
Once inside, I slam the door and toss the ice into the trash. My hands are shaking as I pace the small space, feeling the bruise starting to form under my skin. My eye stings like hell, but it’s nothing compared to the fury pulsing through me. I grab the nearest thing— a textbook, something heavy— and launch it across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying thud.
Then I’m punching the mirror, cracking the glass until my knuckles sting and blood smears across the shards. I lean against the wall, breathing hard, fists clenched, hating that no matter how much I want to hit back, I can’t. I rely on him. For the money, the scouts, the career he’s built for me. All of it. And maybe it is my fault. I mouthed off, and I should’ve known better.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off. I grab my wrist, wincing at the pain, hoping it won’t mess with my grip tomorrow. Thank God for helmets.
The next day, I show up to the rink early, head down, trying not to draw attention. But Coach Jacobs catches me the second I walk in, his eyes narrowing as he sees my face.
“What the hell happened to you?” he snaps.
I shrug, keeping my tone flat. “Must’ve gotten hit in practice. Didn’t notice.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push it. Just gives me a once-over before muttering, “Get it together out there.”
I nod, keeping my head down as I head to the locker room. The pain from my eye is dull now, just a throbbing reminder, but I push it away as I lace up, my focus shifting to the game ahead.
On the ice, it’s like everything else fades away. My bruised face, the fight, Remy with that fucking idiot Colin— none of it matters when I’m moving, gliding across the rink, my skates cutting into the ice. All that’s left is the game, the thrill of the crowd, the rush of adrenaline as I focus on the puck, the goal, the plays we’ve drilled into our heads for weeks.
The other team’s defense is tough and relentless, just like my dad said, but I’m more relentless. Every pass, every shove, every play is sharp, controlled, and aggressive. I throw my shoulder into anyone who gets in my way, feeling the impact reverberate up my spine, and I don’t hold back. I’m playing rough, angling to make it hurt, pushing back harder than usual. Coach would probably call it reckless, but right now, I don’t care.
I catch a glimpse of my dad in the stands, standing up and clapping, his eyes fixed on me with that smug approval that only comes out when I’m doing exactly what he wants. It should feel good— seeing him proud— but all I can think about is that fucking punch and how pissed off I am. And then there’s Remy, who is somewhere with her boyfriend, Colin, probably wrapped up in his arms, smiling at him, letting him touch her. It gnaws at me, a vicious, ugly knot in my stomach that makes me want to crush something. He’s just an obstacle in the way of what I want.
The game’s tight, the score even, but we’re down to the last few minutes. Caleb skates by, catching my eye, nodding in the way we do when it’s time to go all in. I push harder, ignoring the sting in my eye and the ache in my wrist. All I care about is that fucking puck getting into that net.
When the chance comes, I don’t think. I swing, and it hits clean, sliding past the goalie’s reach into the net. The buzzer blares, the crowd erupts, and I’m surrounded by my teammates, their cheers ringing in my ears.
My jaw clenches as I shout while throwing my fist in the air.
“That’s how we do it, baby,” Caleb smacks my helmet.