17. Brayden
brAYDEN
Opening night always hits different.
The locker room buzzed with that tight, wired energy that sits right under your skin and refuses to settle. Tape ripping. Sticks knocking. Guys chirping just to hear their own voices. The rookies looked like they might puke; the vets wore that dead-eyed “been here a thousand times” focus.
Me? I was somewhere in between.
I rolled my shoulders, flexed my fingers in my gloves, and tried to shake off the itch under my ribs. I should’ve been thinking about systems, lines, faceoffs. Instead, my brain kept drifting to shit that had nothing to do with the game.
Bills. Myla. Dad locked away. Mom gone. The usual greatest hits.
“Cox, you ready or you planning on napping through warm-ups?” Crosby smacked my helmet as he passed.
“Bite me,” I shot back, but my mouth curved anyway.
Coach Hayes did his usual pregame bark, and we all shouted the same crap back—put the puck in the net, give ’em hell, all that. Rituals are weird, but they work. By the time we were banging our sticks and heading toward the tunnel, my nerves had turned into that good kind of buzz.
The cold hit my face first when we stepped onto the ice. Then the noise.
The arena roared—Otters jerseys everywhere, kids banging on the glass, drunk dudes already yelling at refs who hadn’t even fucked anything up yet. The ice smelled like home—clean freeze, rubber, and adrenaline.
I took a few laps, feeling my legs wake up. Edges biting, strides lengthening. For a couple minutes, it was just me and the ice.
Then, as I glided past the penalty box, something caught my eye.
Or rather, someone.
Front row. Blonde hair I’d know anywhere. A smile that was too damn big for someone who’d been through as much as she had.
Myla.
She was dressed nice, hair curled, cheeks flushed, eyes locked onto the ice like she’d never left it. There was a guy next to her—button-down shirt, expensive jacket, hand resting on the back of her seat. Looked like he spent more time with spreadsheets than weights.
My stomach turned.
What the hell is she doing here?
And with him?
I barely had time to process it before the puck dropped and the world narrowed down to one thing—play.
The first few shifts were heavy. Lots of hitting, not enough clean looks. I channelled the anger into my legs—short shifts, hard forecheck, good backpressure. Hockey 101.
Then Belsky opened his mouth.
We were battling along the boards when he gave me a cheap shot in the ribs.
“Oh look, Hayes found himself a pigeon,” he sneered in my ear. “You gonna let Daddy protect you your whole career, Cox?”
I ignored him. At least, I tried to. Coach was always on my ass about discipline. “Make them pay on the scoreboard, not the ice.” I could practically hear his speech in my head.
The next play, I got the puck and threaded a clean pass to Hayes in the slot.
“Middle!” I yelled.
He ripped it bar-down. Beautiful. The horn blared. The crowd came unglued.
I whooped, crashed into him, helmet tap. “Nice finish, Cap.”
“For once you didn’t fuck up the pass,” he shot back, grinning.
We skated toward the bench, and for like two seconds, things actually felt… good. Me and Hayes on the same wavelength. The team rolling. Fans losing their shit.
Then Belsky shoved me from behind on the way past.
“Daddy’s little helper,” he spat. “Pigeon boy. You skate like a girl.”
And that was it.
My vision tunneled. All the old anger, the shit I’d watched our dad do, the fights I’d sworn I wasn’t going to repeat—it all crashed together in one white-hot second.
Gloves off.
I grabbed his jersey, yanked it over his head, and drove my fist up into his jaw. Once, twice, three times. His head snapped back, blood already showing at his lip. The crowd roared that sick roar they always did when fists started flying.
For a second, it felt good. Too good. Like the kind of good that turns sour later.
The ref pulled us apart, yelling. My chest heaved. My knuckles throbbed. I could taste metal inside my mouth from where he’d caught me once, but it barely registered.
“Cox—fighting and roughing. To the box.”
No surprise there.
The door to the penalty box clanged shut behind me, and the cold of the seat bled through my pads. My hands shook with leftover rage and adrenaline.
Then someone slammed their palm against the glass.
I snapped my head up.
Myla.
“Brayden, what the ever-loving fuck was that?” she screamed through the plexiglass. “Don’t let them get under your skin.”
Her words were muffled but sharp enough to cut.
“What in God’s name are you fucking doing here?” I shot back, leaning forward.
“Adam brought me. Don’t be mad,” she said, giving me that damn puppy-dog face she’d used since we were kids.
Too late. I was pissed at everything.
The clock ticked down on my penalty. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.
Underneath the anger was something else—shame. That ugly, bitter taste I knew too well from watching our old man throw punches like therapy.
I wasn’t him. I wasn’t.
But from the outside, I sure as shit looked like his son.
When my time ran out, I launched back onto the ice, legs burning with the need to do something right.
“Sorry, man,” I muttered as I slid onto the bench next to Hayes.
He tapped his stick against mine. “Shit happens, dude. You seemed to have a pretty rough time in the box. Not happy to see your sister?”
I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth. “She’s here with some dude I haven’t met yet. I fucking hate when she is at my games, especially when I lose my temper like that.”
Hayes’ eyes flicked toward the glass. Something tense moved in his jaw, but he didn’t say anything.
Maybe he didn’t need to.
We did what we were paid to do after that. Played. Hard. He buried two more. I fed him on the last one—a clean one-timer that lit up the building. Hats rained down. The place turned electric.
My chest swelled watching him throw his arms up, seeing the captain we all needed him to be. For a second, I even forgot about being pissed at him half the time. We’d built that third goal together. That felt good.
Final buzzer: 5–0. Shutout for Crosby. First game, first statement.
We mobbed him, shouted, celebrated, did all the things cameras like. But my head was already half in the tunnel, wondering about Myla. Wondering about that hedge fund mannequin with the too-perfect hair. Wondering why I had a knot in my gut I couldn’t stretch out.
Back in the locker room, the high kept rolling—music up, beers cracking, guys chirping. I was halfway out of my gear when my phone lit up with Myla’s name.
I answered. “Hey, lucky charm. You decide to come—”
“I said just take me home, Adam!” Her voice wasn’t happy. It wasn’t excited. It was sharp. Fear edged.
Every instinct in me snapped to attention.
“Fuck,” I hissed.
Gavin looked over, shirt halfway off. “Cox, you good?”
“It’s Myla.” I was already shoving my legs into sweats. “I think she’s getting messed with by that guy.”
Gavin didn’t blink. “What the fuck are we still standing here for then?”
We both threw on whatever clothes were nearest. No socks, barely any dignity. Gavin grabbed his stick. I grabbed mine. We bolted out of the locker room, sneakers slapping concrete.
“They’re probably in the parking garage,” Gavin barked, eyes scanning the hallway. “There’s a VIP section for those seats they were in—this way.”
We tore down a stairwell, the smell of grease and cold air mixing in the narrow space.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Every scenario I didn’t want to picture flashed through my head anyway. If he hurts her, I’ll kill him. Jail time be damned.
We burst into the garage.
Only one car sat in the VIP section. Some sleek Maserati with fogged-up windows like a bad cliché.
Of course.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I hammered the butt of my stick against the glass. “Myla!”
A muffled scream. “Bray! Help!”
Then his voice—“Shut the fuck up, damn bitch!”
Something in me broke. Clean. Loud.
I drove my stick through the side window. Glass exploded. Gavin was already on the driver’s side, hauling Adam out by his collar like a piece of trash.
I grabbed whatever I could reach—jacket, shirt—and yanked him out the rest of the way. His fancy clothes shredded on the glass scattered across the concrete.
Myla scrambled out the passenger side and stumbled straight into my arms. Her mascara was smeared, eyes red, chest heaving.
My little sister.
I felt my brain switch off.
Gavin and I didn’t coordinate. We didn’t need to. We just started kicking.
His ribs. His side. His legs. Nothing lethal, nothing that would break us as much as him—but enough that he’d never mistake “no” for anything else again.
“Think you’re going to rape my little sister, punk-ass bitch?” I roared.
Myla grabbed my wrist. “Bray! Gavin! He’s not worth it!”
Sirens wailed in the distance and then filled the space. Blue and red lights reflected off shattered glass.
Two cops rolled up, hands ready on their holsters until they took in the scene.
Myla spoke first, voice shaking but clear. “Officers! Thank God!” Myla cried. “This man was trying to rape me!”
Adam wheezed. “I was just having a moment with my girl when these two psychos jumped me—”
Myla stomped on his stomach—hard. “You piece of shit!”
One cop pulled her back. “That’s assault, missy.”
“He was trying to rape me!” Myla choked out. “My brother and Gavin rescued me.”
I held up my hands. “Don’t you think I’d rather be showering and celebrating with my team?”
The cop looked between us—then his eyes went wide.
“No way… Cox? Hayes?” He grinned. “Man, we listened to the game on the radio. You two killed it tonight. That hat trick was sick.”
Thank God for fans in uniform.
Gavin pointed at Adam. “You can call Sean Whistler. He knows us, and he’ll vouch for her.”
The cops asked if Myla wanted to press charges. She looked at Adam—bloody, pathetic, clutching his side—and shook her head.
“No. I think Adam got what was coming to him.”
Adam tried to say something about lawyers and assault. One of the cops waved him off like an annoying fly.