Chapter 2
JAYDEN
The win slips through our fingers in the aftermath of Eli’s penalty. A shitshow of a home game opener. This was our time to redeem ourselves after our Conference Cup loss to the Wolves last season, and we failed. Miserably.
“I don’t know what the fuck that was,” Thompson’s grumble cuts through the silence in the locker room. “But this is the fucking start of the season…”
“We’re meant to be motherfucking favorites, not amateur assholes,” Hillier adds, ripping the tape off his legs while the equipment staff gather jerseys into the hamper in the middle of the room.
“Wake the hell up!” Thompson pushes to his feet beside Eli. He hasn’t said a single word since I walked in, hasn’t looked at me.
Still, I can feel his frustration simmering under his skin, same as mine.
Of all the wins we’ve needed, tonight was the one.
Redemption. We talked about it and worked for it all goddamn summer.
Studied every tape, fixed our weaknesses.
Eli losing it wasn’t something I ever saw coming.
He’s the cool one, the collected one, the guy who stays far enough away to keep focused.
I swallow down the lump in my throat at the sight of Eli’s beat-up knuckles, a couple of stitches threatening to pull apart while he fusses with the leather bracelet on his wrist. Like it’s the one thing in the whole universe holding him together.
“My ten-year-old could’ve run circles around all you bastards tonight. Pathetic!” Thompson’s scowl pierces through me when I look up. Spittle flies everywhere while he keeps yelling. “This is our fucking year!”
“We were a bunch of dickheads out there.” Hillier throws a ball of tape across the room as Coach walks in with the rest of the staff.
The dire expression on his face says it all.
“I won’t waste my time yelling. Tonight was a disaster.
You played like shit, behaved like animals, and got your asses handed to you on your own turf.
This is our first home loss. Make it your last. We’re here to do one job: play the best hockey we can to bring the cup home.
That’s it. Go home, rest up, and get your heads screwed on tight. ”
Pulling a folded-up paper from his suit pocket, he steps up to Eli and holds it out.
“Sylkes, I expected better from you.”
All the blood drains from Eli’s face when he takes the document and reads it. Most of the team is heading for the post-game cool-down in the gym or the massage rooms. Only the leadership group and a few others remain.
“It’s fucking terrible, son,” Coach says as Eli drops his head.
He doesn’t speak, only nods. He’s usually so stoic, but there’s a tremor in his jaw when his lips press together. I can’t tell if he wants to scream or break down, only that something big is brewing when he folds up the paper again.
If I didn’t know him so well, I’d just snatch it from him. But everything about his rigid stance screams leave me alone.
“The suspense is killing me,” Hillier says, tugging the paper from Eli when he glances at Coach. “It was a fight.”
Hillier whistles low after reading it. “Oh, come on. This is an overreaction. Ridiculous for an opener!”
“Yeah? Then let it be a warning to you, assholes,” Coach retorts when I grab the document from Matheo.
I read it quickly.
Coach was wrong. It’s not terrible. It’s a joke.
“A game ban and a fine?” I throw it down on the bench beside Eli. “This is bullshit. Tomes is a prick. He brought that beating on himself.”
“Agreed,” Andersen mutters.
“Do we know what Tomes got?” Thompson asks. Unlike the others, he stands beside Coach, watching Eli closely with that concerned expression that’s earned him the nickname Daddy. “Did he get anything?”
“The same,” Coach grinds out.
“Oh, great,” Hillier scoffs. “Yeah, the guy goes around mouthing off and being a phobe, and this is all he gets?”
“Maybe it’s worth asking the GM to file a complaint,” Thompson says coolly.
“We can’t let him bully and harass us without consequences,” Hillier fires at Coach, blue eyes sharp.
Dylan steps beside him. Captain and alternate captain, ready to go to bat for the team.
“Rio…” Coach starts, shaking his head, but Thompson cuts him off.
“If we don’t take a stand and protect our own, we’re as complicit as Presley Tomes and his bigoted crap.”
“Thompson’s right,” Hillier and I say together.
“We don’t make a stand now, who’s he going to target next? Auguste?”
“Shit, I see what you’re doing, Daddy,” Broussard scoffs, stepping up from somewhere behind me to level Coach with a stare no one else would get away with.
He’s the only one wrapped around Coach’s daughter’s little finger.
“That backwater idiot ever mentions my color, I promise I’ll wipe the floor with his smarmy face. ”
“Jesus,” Coach mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stand down. I’ll handle it with management. Go home and rest up. We’re on the road at six a.m. sharp. Sylkes, I expect you in the press room in Florida, ban or not.”
When he leaves, everyone except Thompson and Hillier clears out while Eli reads the disciplinary document one more time before stuffing it into his bag.
Eli doesn’t say much. He and Broussard are the silent types who can carry a whole conversation with one look—if the conversation was two words: fuck and off.
I’m used to his silence around the team. But tonight, there’s a rough edge to it. Like he’s about to lose it with the whole world. And as much as I’ve tried to ignore it… I can’t.
“You okay?” I ask, sitting beside his bag.
It’s a stupid question, but safer than demanding answers about tonight.
He doesn’t respond. Just stares down at his busted knuckles like he’s done with everything and everyone.
“Eli,” I whisper, leaning closer to read him.
There’s a flightiness in his eyes that twists my chest. When he pulls back, I grip his arm. Firm enough to make him pause, to pin me with a glare.
“I’m fine,” Eli mutters, yanking away and grabbing his bag before heading out.
“Sylkes,” Thompson calls, stopping him.
Eli jerks back with a scowl, as far from Thompson as he can get.
“I get it, okay?” His voice cracks like a whip. “I messed up. I know.”
Thompson goes quiet, brows high on his forehead.
“Eli…” Hillier starts, but even Rio pauses for once. “Man…”
“I’ll do better,” Eli says before walking out.
It’s the tortured twist of his face that makes me follow. That lost-boy look ripping my insides apart has me pushing past reporters waiting for interviews.
“What’s going on?” I demand, falling into step beside him.
I can feel eyes on us as we head toward the players’ lot. He’s suited and booted. I’m still in compression gear, reeking of sweat.
“Elijah!” My bark slows him, and when we hit a quiet hallway, he stops.
The look he gives me says more than any words.
“Can you just… talk to me?”
His eyes fall to my hand hovering near his arm.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs, stepping back before heading for the exit. “I have to go.”
He disappears through the doors with the Comets logo, and I stand there debating whether to follow. My gut says yes. My head says give him space.