Chapter 2 #2
Practice wraps minutes later, players coasting off toward the benches.
My legs feel like lead, my chest heavy, but my mind refuses to quiet.
Phoenix pushes, pokes, and taunts me every second we share the ice.
And somehow, instead of breaking me, it leaves me…
lit. Like I’m burning from the inside out.
And I can’t decide if I hate him for it or if I want more.
The locker room should feel like relief after practice, but the moment I peel my pads off, the ache flares sharp and deep along my ribs.
I keep my face blank, moving carefully as the guys joke and slam lockers around me, but the bruise Phoenix carved into me during scrimmage pulses hot under my skin. Every breath reminds me it’s there.
I tug my undershirt on quickly before anyone can notice how I wince. No chance I’m letting Coach see. He’d bench me in a second if he thought I was compromised, and the thought of being sidelined because of one reckless clash makes my stomach twist. I have to be the best.
Faults were not something I could have next to my name.
That’s what this is really about. Control over how they see me, how much they think they know. If I give an inch and show weakness, I’ll never get it back. I’ll be the kid who can’t take a hit. Worse, I’ll be the kid Phoenix Locke rattled clean off his game.
Nope. Not happening.
I keep my shoulders squared, joining the stream of players filing toward the showers. I time my steps, careful not to favor one side. Pride sits heavy in my chest, heavier than the throb of my ribs.
“Nice save at the end there, Cameron.” Nolan claps me on the back, oblivious to how close I come to biting back a grimace.
“Shut Locke up for half a second.”
“Longest I’ve ever heard silence from him.” Someone else laughs.
“Yeah,” I mutter, managing a small smirk. “About time.”
The guys laugh, moving on, their words bouncing in the humid air. Easy, natural camaraderie. I want to sink into it, but every inhale scrapes against the bruise, a constant reminder that beneath the easy front I’m carrying damage.
Coach’s whistle echoes faintly down the hall. He’s checking in with players as they filter out, sharp-eyed as ever. I adjust my gear bag over my shoulder, forcing myself to move steadily, no limp, no hesitation. When his gaze lands on me, I keep my expression neutral.
“Solid finish today, Cameron,” he says. His tone is clipped but not unkind. “Bit sloppy in the middle. You sick?”
The question catches like ice in my chest. My first instinct is to answer honestly. Tell him no, I’m not sick, just hurting. But the bruise burns under my shirt, and the thought of Coach Bryant pulling me from drills tomorrow is worse than the pain.
“Just an off day,” I say instead. The lie slides out smooth, practiced. Too easy.
Bryant’s eyes narrow for half a beat, assessing. Then he nods once and turns to bark at someone else. Just like that, the danger passes.
Relief mingles with guilt. It isn’t dishonesty, not really. It’s survival.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
As I make my way toward the showers, I feel Phoenix’s gaze on me. He’s across the room, shirtless, watching with that same unreadable grin. Like he knows. Like he’s seen me stiffen, clocked the way I hold myself a fraction too carefully.
For a second, the locker room noise fades under the weight of his stare. Then he looks away, laughing at something one of the defensemen says, and the spell breaks.
I exhale slowly, chest aching. Maybe he hasn’t noticed. Maybe I’m imagining it.
But deep down, I know better. Phoenix notices everything.
The ache follows me into the shower, the sting of hot water hitting my ribs like a punishment. I brace a hand against the tile, eyes shut, letting steam curl around me. The lie I’ve just told Coach echoes in my head, colliding with memories I don’t want to touch.
I’m ten again, standing in the cramped bathroom of our old apartment.
Dad sits on the edge of the tub, a needle still on the counter beside him, his sleeve rolled up.
His arm is blotched with bruises he’ll never admit are his doing.
He looks at me with glassy eyes, tells me he’s fine.
Always fine. Even when he can barely stand.
I learned early what it means to live inside someone else’s denial. I learned that admitting weakness doesn’t make things better; it just gives other people ammunition. The neighbors, the school, the social workers—they all want to dig, to pry, to take control away.
Silas used to tell me, We keep it in-house, Lee.
Don’t let them see. He was fifteen then, already carrying the weight of two parents.
He pulled me close, his arm steady where Dad’s wasn’t, and he whispered promises he was too young to keep.
We survived because we pretended. Because we lie well enough to pass.
So now, standing in the locker room shower with the bruise flaring under my skin, it feels almost natural. A continuation of what I’ve been trained for my whole life. Smile. Straighten up. Say you’re fine. And don’t let anyone catch the truth.
I open my eyes, rinse the soap from my hair, and force myself upright. Pride burns hotter than pain.
The water shuts off with a squeak. I grab my towel, dry off slowly, and by the time I pull my clothes on, I’ve buried the flashbacks deep again. But as I sling my bag over my shoulder and step out into the hall, Phoenix is there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.
His eyes flick to my side, then back up to my face. I keep walking, brushing past him without a word.
“Hey, Cameron,”
I ignore him. If he wants to play detective, let him. I’m not giving him—or anyone else—the satisfaction of seeing me bleed.
“Leander.” He grabs my arm gently, turning me to face him.
“What, Locke?” I growl.
Phoenix smirks at my aggression before pushing a small tin jar in my palms. “For your off day.”
I open my hand to see that he had given me a jar of salve for bruises and deep muscle pains. Brand new.
He turns on his heel and walks out of the building with his duffle over his shoulder. Leaving me stunned in the hallway.
The apartment is dark when I push the door open. Jeremy, my roommate, is out of town visiting his sister, so I have the place to myself. Practice ran late, my ribs are on fire, and all I want is to collapse on the couch and not think about Phoenix Locke’s smirk burned into the back of my skull.
But the second the door shuts behind me, I know I’m not alone.
A faint scrape of movement comes from the kitchen.
My pulse kicks, quick and defensive. I didn’t leave the TV on, didn’t set anything on the counter.
I drop my gear bag gently, ready to snap if some idiot decided to break into a hockey player’s barely-held-together apartment.
“Lee?”
The voice stops me cold. My hand hovers near the closest thing I can use as a weapon—the metal umbrella stand by the door. But then he steps into the light, and my body uncoils so fast it leaves me dizzy.
Silas.
He looks older than I remember, though maybe that’s just the shadows under his eyes, the weight in his shoulders.
Same sharp jaw, same brown hair falling into his face in uneven lengths, like he cut it himself with a bathroom mirror and dull scissors.
His smile is tentative, like he’s not sure I’ll be glad to see him.
I am. And I’m not.
“What the hell?” I manage, forcing my voice level even as confusion gnaws at me. “How did you—how are you here?”
Silas shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, avoiding my eyes. “I’m back in town. Figured I’d surprise you. You never pick up when I call.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” I say, sharper than I mean. “How’d you get in? You don’t have a key.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a grin. “Guess your lock isn’t that hard to figure out.”
A hollow laugh slips out of me. It shouldn’t surprise me; Silas has always been good at finding ways in when doors were closed.
Still, something in the pit of my stomach tightens.
I want to press, but the last thing I need is to chase him off after just getting him back in front of me. So, I let it go. For now.
He leans against the counter, eyeing me like he’s cataloging every change, every line in my face. “So. Hockey. How’s it going?”
My ribs throb under my shirt. Phoenix’s laughter echoes in my head. Coach’s narrowed eyes when I lied about being fine. And still, the words that come out of my mouth are smooth, automatic. “Really good. I’m really clicking with the team. We had a great practice.”
Silas’s shoulders ease, his relief immediate. He wants to believe it. Needs to. I hate how easy it is to give him that.
He pushes off the counter, drifting closer. “That’s good, Lee. That’s really good. I was worried, you know? New city, new team. It’s a lot of new shit in your life.”
I shrug, careful not to wince. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”
Because Silas has handled enough of my issues for a lifetime.
“Of course you can.” His voice is firm, like he’s trying to will that truth into being. He pauses, searching my face, then nods like he’s convinced himself. “You’re tougher than anyone gives you credit for.”
I swallow hard, the lie sitting heavy in my chest.
Tough. If he knew how badly one hit rattled me, how much effort it takes just to keep the mask in place, he wouldn’t be saying that. But that’s the point. He doesn’t know. He can’t. Because Silas carried enough for both of us when we were kids. He doesn’t need to carry me now.
“Want a drink?” he asks, moving toward the fridge like this is his house.
I watch him grab two beers, the casual ease of it surreal. He slides one across the counter, and I catch it out of reflex. The cold bites into my sore fingers. “Thanks,” I mutter.
We crack them open, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. For a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.
But memories have a way of bleeding into the present, whether I invite them or not.
I see Silas at sixteen, standing in our old kitchen with a beer of his own, trying to act like he’s grown enough to keep the world from caving in.
Dad’s been out for three nights straight, the fridge empty except for mustard packets and a carton of milk gone sour.
I ask him if we’re gonna be okay, and he lies, same as I’m lying now.
Yeah, Lee, he said, ruffling my hair with a forced grin. We’re good. I’ve got us.
And I believed him because I had to.
Now here we are again, only the roles reversed.
“You seeing anyone?” Silas asks suddenly, dragging me back to the present.
“What?” I blink.
He smirks faintly. “Don’t give me that. You’re twenty-two, buff, and playing hockey. You telling me there aren’t people lining up?”
I roll my eyes, grateful for the change of subject. “That’s not exactly my focus right now.”
“Still,” he presses, tilting his bottle toward me. “You deserve something good. Someone who gets it. Not just the game, but… you.”
My throat tightens. If he knew about Phoenix—about the way his attention clings to me, sharp and confusing—he’d never let me hear the end of it. He’ll just say that I’ll end up with someone just like dad.
“Maybe someday,” I say carefully.
Silas studies me for a beat, then lets it drop.
We drink in silence for a while, the hum of the fridge filling the gaps.
I keep sneaking glances at him, half-afraid he’ll vanish if I look away too long.
He’s always been a ghost, slipping in and out of my life on his own terms. But tonight, he’s here.
Breathing the same air, asking about hockey like it matters, like I’m not just surviving practice after practice with bruises hidden under my gear.
I want to tell him the truth that I’m not okay. That the weight of pretending, of keeping every crack sealed, is grinding me down. But the words won’t come.
Instead, I finish my beer, set the empty bottle on the counter, and force a smile. “It’s good to have you here, Si.”
His eyes soften. “Good to be here, little brother.”
And just like that, the lie feels worth it.