Chapter Twenty-Six
Tessa
“It’s loud enough to make my teeth vibrate,” Summer shouts over the music, grinning as she lifts her phone to snap a photo of the rink.
The arena feels alive before the puck even drops. Every inch hums through the noise of cowbells and drumbeats as fans stomp their feet against the bleachers. It’s pure chaos, echoing through the rafters until you can practically feel it in your chest.
I pull my jacket tighter, breath fogging in the cold air rolling off the ice. The place smells like popcorn, beer, and cold metal, like every rink I’ve ever been in.
You can feel the anticipation and the tension in the air tonight. It makes my stomach twist before the players ever take the ice.
It’s the Kings versus the Hawks.
“Welcome to rivalry night,” I yell back, trying to smile.
The Hawks have been one of Kolmont’s long-standing in-state rivalries. They’re close enough that both fan bases fill the stands. Summer and I made the drive to watch Clay at his first game.
We barely had time to grab coffee on our way here. We’re lucky we made it in time. The parking lot was already full.
Clay stands near the bench in a suit and tie. He still carries that same formidable air about him that he had when he played. Even from here, I can see the tension in his jaw and the restlessness in the way he rocks his feet side to side, watching the players.
He folds and unfolds his arms, leans down to bark something at one of the players, and runs a hand through his hair when the puck gets pinned in the corner. He’s all control until he’s not, and even I can feel it brewing from here.
The Hawks are playing dirty with slashes behind the ref’s back and hits a second too late. Every play, the Kings grind for an inch, and the Hawks make them work for it. Kolmont keeps their heads up, though, staying disciplined and not letting the Hawks bait them. For now, control wins over rage.
I should be watching them play, but I can’t stop my attention from shifting to him.
He’s calm, but only on the surface. Beneath it, he’s wound tight enough to break.
“Hey,” Summer says, leaning closer. “You okay?”
I nod, but my throat feels dry. I can’t explain it, but I can’t seem to shake the unsettling feeling that something is going to happen tonight.
Summer’s phone buzzes first, then mine, almost in unison. I don’t bother checking it, but I do notice when people start motioning toward me, pointing their phones at us like they’re snapping a photo. Whispers start to spread, and I can feel it when I hear someone mention Evan’s name.
Clay and Evan are both well-known in the hockey world, both having played at Kolmont only to move on to the NHL.
Summer’s face pales, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Tess…” she says quietly, holding out her phone.
Across the top of the screen, the headline is printed in bold font:
Kolmont’s New Coach Caught in Scandal – Clay Barlowe is Dating Brother’s Ex
Back on the ice, the Hawks’ coach doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. He leans close to his assistant, says something behind his hand, and both of them laugh. His gaze cuts back to Clay like he’s already watching him unravel.
And the worst part? They know exactly how to do it.
The Hawks have been under his skin since college. Every time they faced him, they chose to make it personal by taunting him until Clay lost his temper and dropped his gloves. I still remember reading those headlines after it was announced he was suspended for a second time.
Kolmont’s Crown Cracked: Barlowe’s Temper Strikes Again
Barlowe Faces Second Suspension Following Hawks Rivalry Clash
They haven’t forgotten. And now that he’s on the other side of the glass, wearing a suit instead of a jersey, they’re desperate to do it all again.
My stomach twists when the chants start coming. “Hot-head Bar-lowe! Hot-head Bar-lowe!” The crowd doesn’t even seem to care about the game anymore. It’s like they’re pushing to get under Clay’s skin.
Kolmont’s forward loses the puck on a sloppy turnover, and one of the Hawks players snags it, skating past the bench with a smirk on his face.
I don’t recognize him at first, not until I see the back of his jersey flash on the Jumbotron.
Maxwell Kraft, the brother of Mitchell Kraft, who used to play for the Hawks.
The same Mitchell who blindsided Clay in college, sending him crashing shoulder-first into the boards, and took him out of the playoffs.
The same one who smirked in the press after and said, “Guess Barlowe finally learned what happens when you lose control.”
He slows just enough as he passes, looking right at Clay. I can’t make out what he says, but his wide grin is enough for the cameras. Whatever it was must’ve pissed Clay off, too.
The arena eats it up.
Clay doesn’t move, but I can see the war in his eyes when they shift the camera over to him. His hand curls around the edge of the boards. His jaw locks. The muscle in his cheek tics. He doesn’t look at Maxwell, but every inch of him is screaming with restraint.
Summer grabs my arm, nails biting through my sleeve. “They’re baiting him,” she says, the frustration evident in her tone.
“I know,” I whisper. My heart’s in my throat.
The puck drops again, and the Hawks push once more, this time only harder. They continue to get away with their dirty plays, and it’s like the refs only turn a blind eye. The crowd roars louder, and I can tell Kolmont is starting to fray around the edges.
Clay paces behind the bench, barking orders, keeping his hands locked behind his back like it’s the only thing holding him together. The players keep glancing at him, waiting for the temper they’ve all heard stories about.
Every chant. Every hit. Every missed call. It’s like it’s all planned out for one reason and one reason alone—to make Clay lose control.
The next whistle blows for a penalty that shouldn’t have been. The ref skates past the Kolmont bench, eyes a little too smug, and Clay’s head snaps up. He takes one step forward before the assistant coach grabs his arm.
The crowd holds its breath, and I do too. Because this is it. It’s Clay’s first game behind the bench. It’s his first true shot to prove everyone wrong, and they’re pulling out all the stops to burn it to the ground before he ever gets started.
My stomach twists. My palms sting where my nails dig in. I know what’s coming. I’ve witnessed it before, the way his passion and competitiveness come out. The temper he fights to contain. I can practically see the headlines and that asshole reporter’s smirk.
And maybe worse, I can see what it’ll do to him.
My phone vibrates again. I pull it out of my pocket to check the screen, only to see a flood of notifications. Many are from friends from back home, along with my parents and Steven. Even a couple from Evan.
Each one feels heavier than the last, but I can’t bring myself to answer. Not when Clay’s out there trying to hold this team together while the Hawks take every cheap shot they can find.
They don’t even try to be subtle about it. Shoving too hard after the refs blow a whistle, chirping from the bench, anything to get under their skin.
Beside me, Summer leans forward, arms folded tight across her chest. “This is bullshit,” she mutters, shaking her head. “They know exactly what they’re doing.”
“I know.” My fingers twist in my scarf, knuckles white. “They’re trying to make him snap. Give the headlines what they want.”
Her hand finds my arm, grounding me. “He won’t. He’s got this, Tess. He won’t let them win this time.”
I want to believe her. I do. But the tension in his shoulders from here tells me it’s taking everything he has not to bite back.
The crowd feeds on it—every shove, every near miss—chanting his name until it’s less a cheer and more a dare. Hot-head Bar-lowe.
My phone buzzes again. I flip it face down without looking. I don’t even bother checking it this time. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I just need to send all the good vibes I can to Clay and hope he stays calm through this storm.
When the Hawks score again, the arena shakes. Summer curses under her breath. “They’re down one. Ten minutes left.”
Clay paces behind the bench, barking orders, his jaw tight. He doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t rise to the taunts. Just keeps his focus locked on the ice.
“He’s holding it together,” Summer whispers, almost to herself.
“Barely,” I say, my voice tight.
Every second drags. The Kings fight and claw their way back, tying it up with barely any time left. Then, with under a minute to go, one of their defenders fires a shot that ricochets off the inside post and into the net.
The crowd explodes.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, clapping and screaming. Summer grabs my hand, squeezing hard. “They did it!”
Down on the ice, the bench clears, players slamming their gloves to the ground and storming the ice. And in the middle of it all is Clay, standing tall.
Not the man the headlines painted. Not the one everyone doubted. His head lifts, eyes scanning the stands until they find me. The noise fades, the rest of the arena blurring into the background.
Summer elbows me gently. “He’s looking right at you.”
I can’t breathe because he is. And in that look, I can see every warring emotion play out on his face. He didn’t let them win.
The crowd roars again, the horn blaring, but none of it touches me. All I can think of is how proud I am.
Summer grins, leaning close enough to shout over the noise. “If that look gets any hotter, it’s gonna melt the ice.”
I roll my eyes, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”
She laughs, bumping my shoulder. “Oh, don’t act like you’re not eating this up. You and the coach just went public in front of half the state, and he just won his first game. You’re the coach’s girl now. You better own it, babe.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop smiling. “We didn’t go public. Our relationship was leaked. There’s a big difference.”
Summer shrugs and grins. “Yeah, maybe, but it’s out there now. No more secrets.”
The final horn sounds again. The Kings pour off the ice, the arena pulsing with victory. My phone buzzes in my pocket with another message I’m not ready to answer.
The truth’s out. There’s no taking it back.
And somehow, that’s both the best and scariest feeling in the world.