Wyatt
The kid came at me blind side, all eighteen-year-old muscle and ambition. I saw him three strides out—the overextension in his reach; the weight shifted too far forward—and braced.
His shoulder connected with my ribs like a car door slamming shut.
Ice chips sprayed. My skates carved twin arcs as I slid backwards into the boards. The plexiglass shuddered. Somewhere Coach's whistle shrieked, sharp enough to split eardrums.
I straightened. Tested my ribs. Nothing broken.
The kid circled back, grinning like he'd just made the highlight reel. "Got you clean, Garrison."
"Did you?"
I pushed off, picked up speed. The puck sat thirty feet out, abandoned mid-drill. Morrison saw me coming and moved—smart kid, that one—clearing the lane.
I wound up. Released.
The shot cracked against iron, sang that perfect metallic note, and dropped through the net.
Coach blew the whistle again. "That's how you finish a play."
The rookie's grin evaporated.
I skated past him, tapped his shin guard with my stick. "Good hit, though. Keep your weight centered next time."
Pain was simple. You took it, absorbed it, used it. Pain made sense in a way nothing else did anymore.
Betrayal didn't. Betrayal left scars that never showed on x-rays.
We ran the drill four more times. Each time, someone tested me—checking if the old man still had it, if age had finally caught up. Each time, I proved I did.
Thirty-six was ancient in this league. Most guys retired at thirty-two, moved into coaching or broadcasting or front office positions where their knees didn't scream and their shoulders didn't pop every morning.
I kept playing because the ice was honest. You either made the play or you didn't. You either earned respect or you got buried. No lies here. No pretty words that meant nothing when the lights went out.
The whistle blew final.
"Hit the showers," Coach called. "Masquerade fundraiser Friday. Everyone better show up looking presentable."
Groans rippled through the team. Jenkins threw his gloves down. "Do we have to?"
"Yes." Coach's tone left no room for negotiation. "Donors write the checks. You smile, you shake hands, you don't embarrass the organization."
I unlaced my skates, taking my time while the younger guys stampeded toward the locker room. Their voices echoed off concrete—jokes about which reporter would be there, which donor's daughter was single, who'd get the drunkest fastest.
Morrison lingered by the bench, retaping his stick even though practice was over. Kid had potential. Worked hard. Kept his head down.
"Something on your mind?" I asked.
He glanced up. "You really going to this thing Friday?"
"Have to."
"Even with that ugly mug?" Weston Cole asked.
"Can't help my face," I muttered. I forgot I had the scars until someone brought them up. And someone always brought them up.
"You don't seem like the fundraiser type," the rookie said.
I stood, skates dangling from my hand. "I'm not. But the team needs money. Money comes from people who want to feel important. So we put on suits and let them feel important."
"Cynical."
"Realistic."
The locker room had mostly cleared by the time I reached my stall. A few stragglers remained—Carter on his phone, Rodriguez examining a cut on his forearm, Williams rewrapping his ankle.
I stripped off my practice jersey, hung it on the hook. Sweat cooled against my skin.
"You planning on retiring soon, old man?"
Williams tossed the question across the room like a grenade wrapped in a smile.
I grabbed my towel. "Not until I collect what I'm owed."
The words came out heavier than I'd intended. Williams' smile faltered. The room went quiet for half a breath too long.
Rodriguez cleared his throat. "Who owes you?"
"Everyone."
I headed for the showers before anyone could ask what I meant.
The water hit my shoulders in a rhythm I'd memorized years ago—five seconds hot, shift left, five seconds center, shift right. Muscle memory stripped down to its most basic function.
Steam clouded the tile walls. Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the shower stalls, then faded. A locker slammed. Voices carried from the hallway, muffled and distant.
Good. They'd all cleared out.
I preferred it this way. No forced conversation. No performance. Just water and silence and the kind of solitude that didn't demand anything.
The heat loosened muscles I'd punished during practice. My ribs protested where the rookie had landed that hit—not broken, just tender. I pressed my thumb against the spot, testing. Pain flared sharp and immediate.
Perfect.
I shut off the water.
The towel hung where I'd left it, rough against scarred skin.
I dried methodically—shoulders, chest, legs.
Each motion deliberate. Controlled. Dark slacks.
Button-down, charcoal gray. Watch on my left wrist, the leather band worn soft from years of wear.
I fastened each button with the same precision I used to tape my stick.
My phone sat on the bench where I'd left it, screen dark.
I reached for it lazily, expecting nothing. A dozen notifications usually waited—PR requests, media tags, team updates I'd ignore until someone made me respond.
The screen lit. One alert sat at the top. Not sports. Not PR. Not the usual noise.
I went still.
The tracker I'd set up three years ago—buried deep enough that no one would find it unless they knew exactly what they were looking for—had triggered.
Chastity Harrington: Location Updated - Fraser, MI
The timestamp read 4:47 PM. Two hours ago.
I stared at the notification.
My thumb hovered over it.
She was home. Winter break. Of course. College kids always came home for the holidays, returned to their perfect houses with their perfect families and their perfect illusions about how the world worked.
I set the phone down. Picked it up again. Deleted the notification.
The information stayed locked in my head where it belonged—filed away with every other detail I'd collected over the past three years. Her class schedule. Her favorite coffee shop near campus. The route she took to her morning lectures.
She didn't know I existed. Didn't know her father's merger partner had once been married to a man who'd burned his entire world down. Didn't know her precious family legacy had cracks deep enough to swallow everything she thought she understood about loyalty.
She would, though.
Soon.
I pulled on my jacket, checked my reflection in the mirror mounted above the sinks. The scars caught light—raised tissue that never quite healed right, that never let anyone forget what I'd done.
Monstrous. That was what Williams had called me once, drunk enough to say it to my face.
He wasn't wrong.
I grabbed my bag. Friday's masquerade loomed three days away. Donors. Media. The same people who'd whisper about my face while smiling to mine.
And her.
She'd be there.
I knew because her father never missed an opportunity to parade his perfect daughter in front of investors.
My phone stayed silent in my pocket as I headed for the exit.
So she was back.
Good.
I'd been waiting.
The rink parking lot sat empty except for my truck and a sedan the equipment manager always forgot to move. Overhead lights flickered on as dusk settled, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made the world look cheaper than it was.
I climbed into the driver's seat. Engine rumbling to life, heater blasting cold air that would take five minutes to warm.
My phone sat in the cupholder where I'd tossed it.
I reached for it. Opened Instagram. Her profile loaded in seconds. Public, of course. No privacy settings. No walls. Just her entire life spread out for anyone with eyes and an internet connection.
@chastityharrington
The profile picture showed her laughing, head tilted back, freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones like someone had flicked a paintbrush. Big eyes—so goddamn big they looked like they belonged in a painting. Green, maybe hazel depending on the light.
Innocent.
That was the word that kept surfacing. Not na?ve. Not stupid. Just... unblemished.
I scrolled.
Coffee shop photo from two weeks ago. Some artsy shot of a latte with foam art, her hand wrapped around the cup. Dainty fingers. No rings. Caption read: Fueling finals one overpriced espresso at a time.
Next: A volunteer event. Her in a university t-shirt, hair pulled back, serving food at what looked like a homeless shelter. She smiled at whoever was behind the camera—genuine, not staged. The kind of smile that reached her eyes.
Thirty-seven likes. Dozen comments. All vapid.
You're amazing!
So proud to call you my friend!
Heart emoji heart emoji heart emoji
I kept scrolling.
Birthday dinner. Her surrounded by girls who all looked identical—same highlights, same teeth, same designer handbags casually visible in frame. But she stood out. Softer somehow. Less polished. More real.
A photo with a guy. Tall, clean-cut, polo shirt tucked into khakis. His arm around her shoulders. Her leaning into him, comfortable. Happy.
Caption: Lake weekend with my favorite person.
Posted three months ago.
I zoomed in on her face.
No makeup, or at least not enough to notice. Sun-kissed skin. That smile again—the one that didn't calculate, didn't perform, didn't strategize.
Not sharp like her mother.
Not performative like her father.
Just a girl who thought the world was good.
My thumb hovered over the photo.
She didn't know. About the real reason for this merger. About what her father built his empire on. About who he destroyed to get there. About the woman he paraded in business meetings while his wife smiled and poured wine at dinner parties.
She doesn't know anything.
I scrolled further back. Found the post from yesterday.
A photo of her childhood home—stately, tasteful, expensive in that quiet way that screamed old money. Snow dusted the front steps. Wreath on the door.
Caption: Home. Family means everything.
Forty-three likes.
Her mother's comment sat at the top: So wonderful to have you here, sweetheart!
Below that, her father's. Proud of my girl.
My jaw locked.
Proud.