Chapter Fifteen Sam
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SAM
“Move,” Ryker barks as he moves past me, pushing my shoulder along the way.
No surprise there.
It wouldn’t be my life if a day went by without a shove here or a carefully crafted insult there. To expect anything else from him, or anyone else for that matter, would be foolish.
Today, though, it feels different. The tension is hitting before I make it through the door. It’s in the way the music blares louder than usual, in how the lockers slam a little harder, how no one notices me step into the room with my crate of clean towels.
Finals is tomorrow. The moment that determines whether or not they’re going all the way.
Many of them have been here before since the team has gone to nationals four years in a row.
But, while the rookies have plenty of time to showcase themselves to pro scouts, the seniors—Kane, Mountain, Alex, and a handful of others—know this is their last shot.
So it’s more than a game for them.
I set the crate down, trying my damnedest not to breathe too deeply. Hell, even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. But, just my luck, a stick falls over behind me, clattering against the floor. All eyes are on me in an instant.
“If we lose tomorrow, it’s going to be her fucking fault,” a rookie says.
“She’s bad luck,” another follows.
“Why don’t you stop breathing around our equipment before one of us ends up benched like Jackson,” a third joins in.
Well, that didn’t last long now, did it?
They stand from in front of their stalls and slowly make their way toward me.
“Hey,” a sharp voice cuts through the tension.
They turn to find the owner of the voice, and I follow their gaze, craning my neck to look around their large frames. Damn hockey players. Tall and massively built. Not all of them, but these three have surely been drinking GMO-filled milk since infancy.
Alex stands on the other side of the locker room, pulling his jersey over his head and yanking it into place.
“I get it. She’s a bitch and we hate her, but cut it out,” he orders in some half-assed attempt at keeping up his end of the bargain.
I roll my eyes. Seriously? This jerk. What kind of defense is that?
“We have more important shit to focus on.” Alex glares around at his teammates, looking them each in the eye. “Like kicking Baymont’s ass.”
The room quiets as they give him their undivided attention.
“I get it. We’re down a man. Jackson was… a good player. But so is everyone else, and we can bring this home. But not if we’ve got our heads up our asses.”
I stare on, actually shocked. Maybe there is more to Alex Williamsburg than just hockey, obnoxious charm, and sexual prowess.
Not that I care.
But I’ve heard the stories. The girls talk about him like he invented orgasms. They act like he’s God’s gift to earth, and he eats up every second of it.
I don’t get the hype. I mean… sure. He’s hot.
Annoyingly hot with a frame that’s impossible not to notice.
Broad shoulders, insanely defined arms with veins cutting down his forearms like they’ve got somewhere to be.
The type of body that makes walls seem optional.
Like he could hold you there with one hand and not break a sweat.
Hair that always looks like someone just tugged on it—just messy enough to look intentional. That stupid perfect jaw. And then his voice—smug in the worst way.
He’s the kind of hot that gets girls in trouble. But I’m not one of them. I won’t fall for it… I know better. He’s just another spoiled, overhyped, emotionally constipated jock.
“Do you want to win?” He glances around, reaching out to slap a closed fist against Kane’s chest.
Kane makes eye contact with me, his jaw set in that scowl he seems to reserve only for me. Then I look at Bryden. He doesn’t notice me, too busy suiting up.
He’s the only one that doesn’t look at me as if he hates me, but the blankness in his eyes isn’t much better. If anything, it feels worse. At least with the others, I don’t have to guess at how they feel about me. Bryden… not so much.
“Huh?” Alex continues. “Do you want to win? Do you want to go to nationals?”
“Yes,” they say in unison, their voices echoing through me.
It’s chilling to watch. One moment they’re stiff and doubtful, and just like that Alex manages to restore what little faith they had.
“Then man up, suit up, and hit the fucking ice.”
Lockers slam as they quickly finish putting on their uniforms, then head to practice. One by one they stroll through the doors and down the tunnel. Slowly the volume diminishes and for a second, all I hear is the buzz from the overhead lights.
Finally, Alex glances up, and our eyes lock. There’s something behind his expression—exhaustion, maybe. When he lets out a long breath, I realize what it is. It’s the pressure. He’s put on a front to hype up his team, to get them out of their heads, but he’s feeling it, too.
“Are you going to tape up my sticks or keep staring all night?”
And the asshole returns.
My mouth presses into a line, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes again.
“Just a little shocked that your brain could form a full sentence let alone give a pep rally.”
His lip twitches. It’s almost a smirk—real, not fake. Almost something human.
Without another word, Alex takes off, disappearing into the tunnel behind the rest of the team.
I shake my head and put my headphones on while I walk over to the equipment room. Digging my phone out of my back pocket, I put on some music and flop down on the bench.
Tonight’s priority is taping off all the sticks, including backups, and making sure the uniforms are clean and ready to go. Last night, I had to sharpen twenty-six pairs of skates, each blade a different cut.
I work fast on Alex’s sticks, wrapping tape around the blades and shaft with a practiced precision.
Stretch. Press. Tear. Repeat.
I run my fingers over the fresh tape, inspecting my work before moving on to his backups. He likes his grip tight, almost suffocating. God, I hate that I know that. Hate that I cared enough to memorize their preferences.
Kane’s tape job is all bark and no finesse—barely staggered grip lines and half a roll at the blade. He likes the handle thick, tape bunched where his fingers rests. He says it “feels mean.” Whatever the hell that means.
Mountain is different from them all, barely even taping his stick blade at all. Just a single strip of friction tape down the middle is how he likes it. He swears that it gives him a better feel, but I wouldn’t know.
When I finish, I move on to gear check and setup. My brain works on autopilot, simmering in silent resentment. If anything is out of place, I catch it before they even notice. The last thing I want is to give them something to come at me for.
I hate this job, but I’m not expelled, which means I still have a chance at making something with this life and getting custody of my brother.
So I replace a torn glove here, a twisted chin strap there. Switch out worn laces, swap broken buckles, and cut away any snapped Velcro like my life depends on it. Because in some sick, twisted way, it does.
Next, I set out sock tape—white, black, and clear—each one unboxed and dropped at the edge of their stalls like they magically appeared. As I move on to hanging towels, my music is drowned out by the cacophony of voices coming down the tunnel.
Practice must be over.
I remove my headphones, hook them around my neck, and check my phone for the time.
It’s been nearly two hours already?
The team pours in, more enthusiastic than when they went out of there. The adrenaline coursing through them is loud and alive as they talk loudly to one another, banging against cold metal.
I stop what I’m doing and step out of the locker room to give them the space to undress and shower, already prepared to be here longer than I need to be.
Every practice, they take their sweet time, while I stand in this tunnel.
I can’t leave until all players are off the ice and out of the locker room.
The sound of the puck scraping over the ice catches my attention.
Curiosity strikes and I find myself inching slowly toward the sound.
The right side of the ice comes into view first; then a puck goes barreling into the net at lighting speed.
A second later, so does another, each followed by an aggressive grunt.
I reach the end of the tunnel just as Alex skates across the ice, lost in a world of his own.
He doesn’t stop. Another slap of the puck. Another sharp grunt. Doesn’t breathe between shots, just lines them up and lets loose like something in his chest might detonate if he doesn’t.
Not a single ounce of the Alex Williamsburg I’ve grown to hate is on that ice right now. Not the smug grin or lazy walk. Not the flirtatious banter or the too-expensive loafers.
This isn’t just the guy the girls drool over. He’s something else entirely.
His jersey clings to his back, drenched. The stick cracks, but he barely blinks. This isn’t just practice; it’s more like he’s punishing himself.
Whatever he’s going through, whatever he’s trying to outrun, it isn’t my business. So I step back before he sees me. I have uniforms to wash, towels to fold, bottles to refill, and a name to keep clean.
The locker room is empty when I reenter, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Putting my headphones back on, I shove my phone into my back pocket and proceed to get back to work. There’s no telling how long Alex is going to be on the ice tonight, so I might as well make the most of this time.
As I collect the newly discarded uniforms from the floor in front of each stall, my face scrunches up with each garment I have to touch. I’ll never get used to how badly hockey equipment stinks, and today the stench is worse.
I shake my head, disgusted by the sweat-drenched jerseys.
“Eww,” I mutter to no one.
Or so I thought.
When I turn the corner to enter the laundry area, I run smack-dab into a wall of muscle. The bin tips over, and jerseys spill out.
“Watch where the hell you’re walking,” Ryker snarls, his voice louder than my music.
I straighten fast, snatching the headphones off, and try to step around him. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was still in here.”
But Ryker doesn’t let me. Instead, he steps in front of me, his eyes dark and menacing. A lump forms in my throat, and I clench my fist, prepared to defend myself.
“Alex stood up for you tonight, but don’t think this means you’re safe. You’d better watch your back,” he threatens.
I open my mouth to dish out a snarky comment of my own, but nothing comes out. Being alone with him, up close and personal, triggers me. It takes me back to all the times I’ve had to shield myself from Gary’s drunken wrath.
But Ryker doesn’t touch me. He steps around me, his shoulder bumping into mine so hard that my headphones hit the floor. It’s not until I hear the double doors swing closed that I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding.