Chapter Twelve Alex
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALEX
Fuck.
My stick barely connects with the puck, sending it scraping haphazardly across the ice. It’s a weak shot—one I’d be embarrassed of if I wasn’t still hungover from last night. It was all fun and games until we were beckoned at the ass crack of dawn.
It doesn’t help that we didn’t sleep a lick, aside for occasionally dozing off in the hospital waiting room as we waited to hear news on Jackson.
Now I see what Mountain was worried about. I’ll bet my 911 Carrera GTS that he’s about to be a major pain in my ass about it.
No one was around to see Jackson get his ass kicked, just the new girl running off.
If she wasn’t guilty, then why run? I honestly wouldn’t give a shit if it wasn’t for us being three games away from nationals.
Everything is riding on having all of our best players on that ice.
I might not like that dickwad, but we wouldn’t be this far without him.
I glance around, taking in my team. Everyone looks just as beat up as I feel. Well, almost everyone. Mountain is making the rest of us look like degenerates.
Kane’s doing that thing where he skates circles so tight he might carve up the ice with his rage. Something he’s been doing a lot more lately, like there’s something eating at him.
A loud clank ricochets off the ceiling as someone yanks open the doors. I turn just in time to take in the snarl stretched across Coach Barrett’s mug. Even from here I can see the vein in his temple, his anger loud and glaring.
“Circle up!” Coach roars, stopping near the tunnel and turning to face us. “Now!”
“Hundred bucks says he’s about to make us do suicides,” Luka says to another player.
He’s wrong.
We broke curfew, threw an unsanctioned party, and one of our best players ended up in the hospital. Coach is going to do a lot worse than suicides.
Mountain skates pass, bumping me along the way. A silent I told you so if I ever heard one before. Kane and I are the last to join the circle, and when we do, my eyes go straight to the person half-hiding in Coach’s shadow.
Sam.
The skimpy skirt is long gone, her thick thighs covered in denim instead.
The old hoodie is way too big for her, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
She doesn’t look nearly as feisty as she was last night.
Instead she’s tucked behind the coach as if she wishes she could disappear, that defiance of hers now replaced with dread and something else. Fear, maybe? Regret?
Kane mutters under his breath while Mountain only watches her with an unreadable stare.
I watch as her eyes land on Kane, her breath hitching just a little.
When I look at Kane, his brow is furrowed and his grip on the stick is so tight the skin of his knuckles is white as it stretches over bone.
Something about her presence catches him off guard, and I make a mental note to ask him about it later.
Coach waits until we’re all in front of him before he speaks again. “Kincaid’s done.”
The silence slams into us, and the weight of the coach’s words settle around us.
“What do you mean done?” someone asks but I don’t bother to see who.
Coach Barrett releases an aggravated sigh and scrubs a palm over his beard. It’s bad. I can tell by the hesitation in his posture and the crow’s-feet that are forming deeper around his eyes. It ages him well beyond his forty-something years.
“He won’t be returning for the rest of the season. He may not return to the ice at all.”
A protest erupts, a slew of profanities flying around. But all I can focus on is her. Sam flinches, tugging on her sleeves, fraying the already tattered hems even more.
She did this.
That’s why she’s here, right? To, what, say she’s sorry for possibly fucking up our chances at nationals?
Coach doesn’t let the moment breathe. “You can thank her.”
His thumb jerks toward Sam, but she doesn’t move or speak. She just takes it as they all start at once, spewing spiteful words and toxic energy in her direction.
“Hope you’re proud of yourself!”
“You killed the fucking season!”
“Just a puck bunny doing anything to catch a mark!”
“Fucking bitch!”
Through it all, she’s mute and stone-still.
If anything, she shrinks back further, like she’d crawl inside her own skin if she could.
Her head is down, a single curl falling from her messy bun.
Their words sting, I know they do, if the subtle flinch after each accusation is any indication.
She doesn’t defend herself. Doesn’t even try.
It’s nauseating, and I can’t watch it anymore.
“Enough,” I yell, daring anyone to challenge me. The ruckus dies down, shouts trailing off into grumbles and dirty looks.
Coach releases an exasperated breath before turning the full force of his disappointment back to us.
“You’re not off the hook,” he snarls, glaring at me as he does. “You knew what was at stake and still went against everything I told you.”
“It’s not—” Luka starts, but Coach cuts him off.
“Save it.” He shakes his head in disgust. “The only acceptable response right now is ‘yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir,” we all mutter in a reluctant echo.
“You boys think you’re untouchable? You’re not. You’re sloppy. You’re arrogant and apparently stupid. You’re on the cusp of the best season of your lives, and you risk losing everything we’ve worked for.”
He continues pacing, staring at each of us like he’s debating who to bench next.
“You let your egos cost us Jackson. Possibly even cost us our shot. If you can’t show restraint, how am I supposed to trust you’ll have the discipline to bring it home?”
Another rhetorical.
“Bag skate until you puke.”
Groans rippled from the group as they resentfully file out. Kane grinds his stick into the ice, his jaw ticking. Mountain lets out a slow exhale, already shifting into gear. I’m just about to fall in line, but Coach stops me in my tracks.
“Williamsburg. Stay.”
I freeze, my heart sinking as the rest of the team peels off toward the center of the ice. I move toward the edge, my skates crunching over frozen ground. Now that there aren’t as many eyes on her, Sam looks up, her broken eyes meeting mine.
“She’s now your problem.”
I frown. “What?”
“You heard me. She should be expelled, but the chancellor obviously has different plans. You’re the captain, this happened at your party, so she’s all yours.”
Fucking thanks, Dad.
Once again, his decision affecting my life.
There’s been a long-standing beef between Coach and my father.
They fake pleasantries in public for the sake of appearances, but beneath the veil, they hate each other.
Coach can’t tell my dad where to shove it, so he takes special care in taking out his disdain on me.
“She’s the new equipment manager. Make sure she knows her way around so she doesn’t ruin something else. If she fucks up, you’re benched.” He peers down at her. “You’re on thin ice, so do what he says, take care of the team, and stay out of the way.”
With that, Coach walks off and the rest of the team skid around us, some shooting venomous glares or snide remarks as they do.
“This is her fault,” a player spits as he passes me.
Then it’s just the two of us, alone for a second amid the chaos. She stares at me, bracing herself as if she expects me to deliver another blow.
I skate to the bench, not bothering to address her. I dig soakers from the box and flop down on the seat to cover my blades while taking in the scene. The boys fly back and forth across the rink during the drills, an array of cursing trailing behind them.
Shaking my head, I push off the bench and walk across the ice, back toward Sam. She’s frozen in place where I left her, head tucked into her chest, and hands shoved into the pocket of her hoodie. From this angle, I can see just how much the thing swallows her.
But she’s not small. Not really.
Not with thighs like that, thick, solid, and barely contained by her jeans.
It’s distracting as hell, the way her body contradicts the way she carries herself—like she’s trying to disappear when all she does is stand out.
The sweatshirt hangs off her, but the curves underneath are undeniable.
Hips made for grabbing. Lips full and parted like she’s holding back a thousand words.
The kind of mouth that would look good wrapped around—
I snap my gaze up before my thoughts spiral. Jesus.
This is the girl who ruined our season. The last person I should be looking at like that. But the more she tries to vanish, the more I notice. The rich brown skin peeking from the neckline of her hoodie, glowing under the cold fluorescents.
That’s the problem. She looks too damn good in a place meant to break her.
I walk past her, not bothering to stop. “Are you coming or what?”
She shuffles behind me, flinching at every loud grunt or crash from the boys on the ice. I push open the door to the tunnel and lead her into the locker room. It’s dim when we enter, quickly turning quiet when the door slams shut with an echo.
I flick on the light and watch as she blinks to adjust her eyesight. Rows of lockers and gear come into view. Still hovering by the entrance, she drags her gaze around, clearly unsure where she fits in this world.
I point to the corner stacked high with equipment. “Skates need to be sharpened and lined up before practice. Instructions are on the side of the machine. Each player has a different cut. Get them wrong and someone can blow a knee. Again.”
She clenches her fist at that. I push open the gear room. Sticks stacked by numbers, jerseys hung up like ghosts waiting to be worn again.
“Sticks and pucks are here. Tape is in the cabinet. Learn everyone’s sizes, stick preferences, and taping styles. Don’t touch Kane’s stick unless he tells you to.”
We continue farther into the space.
“Laundry room is there. Sweaters go in color-coded bins. Never mix them.”
She frowns. “Sweaters?”
I huff. Of course she doesn’t know shit about hockey. Why would she?