9. Austin
AUSTIN
T here are few things more humiliating than being benched.
Actually, scratch that. There’s nothing worse than chasing loose pucks across the ice while my teammates fire off slap shots and chirp me like I’m their personal assistant.
“Rhodes!” Coach Hayes shouts. “You’re on cones!”
I look down at the stack of bright orange triangles. Sick. Cone duty. My favorite.
I skate over to the corner and start setting them out, resisting the urge to just launch one across the rink. Not worth the extra laps I’d probably get slapped with.
This is my life now. Skate around, set stuff up, get yelled at. Repeat.
It’s a cruel punishment. Like dangling a plate of wings in front of a starving man and telling him he can sniff them but not eat.
I’ve been playing hockey since I was six. I’ve broken bones for this sport. Bled on this ice. Missed vacations, parties, everything. And now I’m out because of Anatomy . A class I didn’t want to take and still don’t understand.
“Move your ass, Rhodes,” Coach calls again.
I glance over my shoulder. “I am moving. This is premium ass movement.”
“Less sass, more hustle.”
I mutter under my breath and keep skating, setting up the rest of the cones while the guys start warming up. I try not to look at them, but it’s hard not to feel it. They’re flying through drills, calling out to each other, laughing. Meanwhile, I’m the team’s cone boy.
“You guys better be grateful,” I say under my breath. “I didn’t sign up to be team equipment manager.”
Logan skates past and taps the top of my helmet with his glove. “Lookin’ good, water boy.”
I shoot him a glare. “Blow me.”
“Tempting,” he calls over his shoulder with a grin before he skates off like the little shit he is.
Cole follows behind him, chewing gum, of course. “You missed a puck.”
“Thanks, sunshine.” I blow him a kiss. He doesn’t even blink. Figures. Cole’s got the emotional range of a brick wall. You could light the bench on fire and he’d just sit there.
Although, lately, there’s been one person who actually gets a reaction out of him. I don’t know what went down there, but it’s weirdly entertaining. And yeah, I’ve thought about asking, but I’d probably get a shoulder check for even bringing it up.
I skate over and start dropping cones, one by one. It’s cold. My fingers are stiff. My back’s starting to ache. I know no one’s gonna thank me for doing this, but whatever.
I finish the setup and drop to the side of the rink, leaning on the boards. Coach blows his whistle, the guys explode into the first drill, and I just stand there, arms crossed, freezing my ass off.
This sucks.
I miss being on the ice. I miss the noise, the pressure, the rush. I even miss the dumb stuff. Coach yelling, the gear digging into my shoulders, sweat dripping into my eyes. I’d take all of it over this.
And yeah, I screwed up. I know that. I should’ve paid more attention in class, turned my work in and whatever else. But it’s not like I was partying all the time. I just… suck at school. Always have.
I lift my head when I spot Isabella making her way over, clutching her clipboard to her chest. She slides down onto the bench beside me without a word and gives me a sideways look.
“Hey, baby Hayes,” I say with a forced smile.
“You alright?” she asks, narrowing her eyes a little.
I shrug, staring back at the ice. “Peachy.”
She lets out a soft hum and watches the guys tearing through drills.
“You miss it?” she asks, nodding toward the ice.
Hell yeah . I want to say it out loud, but it sounds pathetic even to myself.
Instead, a bitter laugh slips out. “It’s the only place I belong,” I admit.
She gives me a quick smile. “You’ll be back soon,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Isabella’s nice. Too nice for someone dating Ryan Reed, but hey, love’s blind and all that. Still, she didn’t see the look of disappointment on her dad’s face when I got suspended.
“Don’t think that’s happening anytime soon,” I tell her, my eyes flicking back to the ice. Nathan’s glove snatches a puck midair. I swallow the knot in my gut.
“Ryan said you got a tutor.”
I nod, slowly, glancing at Isabella. “Yeah. Her name’s Maisie. And she’s… she’s actually pretty great at it,” I admit.
I catch myself smiling just thinking about Maisie. The way she organizes her pens by color, how she uses every shade of highlighter known to man.
I wasn’t expecting to like tutoring. Wasn’t expecting her, really.
I breathe out a laugh. “She hates me most of the time.”
She rolls her eyes like it’s a full-time job. Doesn’t laugh at my dumb jokes. Huffs at everything I say. But for some reason, I keep pushing her buttons anyway.
It’s fun. Teasing her. Watching her get flustered and then act like it doesn’t bother her.
“Most of the time?” Isabella teases, raising an eyebrow.
I grin. “Well, obviously, she secretly loves me. I’m Austin Rhodes.”
She shoots me a look. “And humble, too.”
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s smart,” I continue, her face flashing in my mind. “Weirdly patient, and doesn’t take my shit, which is kind of refreshing.” I pause, my eyes tracing the players moving through drills. “It’s actually fun. More fun than I thought it would be.”
The whistle blows again and the guys reset for the next drill.
I swallow hard. “Fuck, I want to be out there so bad.”
Isabella bumps me lightly with her elbow. “Then don’t screw things up with your tutor.”
I thought I didn’t need a tutor, that asking for help would make me seem weak.
But maybe I need her more than I want to admit.
Because if I want to get back on that ice, I need to pass. And if I want to pass, I need her.
“Yeah,” I say, blowing out a harsh breath. “I’ll try not to.”
She stands up and heads back to her spot beside her dad. She watches the guys on the ice, jotting stuff down every once in a while.
I pull off my gloves with a long sigh. My hands shake just a little from the chill as I reach for my phone in my pocket.
I know I shouldn’t, but I’m weak, and I need a hit of serotonin. So, I swipe my phone open, and the second I see her name pop up, my lips twitch into a smile.
Just seeing her message there makes the freeze in my chest thaw a little.
It’s a stupid little thing, really, but right now it’s exactly what I need.
Cherry:
Confession: I waved at someone who wasn’t waving at me and now I can never walk past the science building again.
Her text pops up, and I blink, trying to make sense of the jumble of letters.
I bite down a laugh before typing back.
Me:
Confession: I think I’d still wave back at you. Even if it wasn’t meant for me.
Cherry:
Flirting with me already?
Me:
I work quick. I dunno who’s gonna snap you up. I don’t want to lose my shot.
Cherry:
You’re so dramatic.
Me:
You love it.
Cherry:
I tolerate it. Barely.
Me:
You wound me, Cherry. I thought we had something special.
Cherry:
We do. It’s built entirely on sarcasm, insults, and the fact that you don’t know my name.
I rub my hand over my face, grinning like an idiot.
Me:
I don’t need your name. Texting you is the most fun I’ve had in, honestly, ever.
The second I hit send, I regret it a little.
I like this girl. I might not know her, but I’ve never had this much fun with someone before. But still, saying it out loud feels like a line crossed.
But the thing is, I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to something the way I do with her messages. Can’t remember the last time someone made me laugh this much without even trying.
Cherry:
Please tell me you’re having a better day than I am.
I pause, staring at the screen, noting how she changed subject. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I want to tell her about today. How much it sucked watching from the sidelines. How I’d give anything to be back out there. But that means telling her why . Which means telling her who I am. And I don’t want to do that. Not with her.
I like that she doesn’t see me as “the hockey guy.” She doesn’t talk to me like I’m someone who always screws up or can’t get his shit together. She just… talks to me.
Me:
Sorry. Today sucked.
There’s a pause. I picture her reading it, frowning. Maybe sitting in class or curled up in bed somewhere.
Cherry:
Wanna elaborate or keep it cryptic?
Me:
You’re the one who said no details, remember?
Cherry:
Right. My bad. Well I’m sorry about whatever happened that you can’t tell me about.
I lean back against the boards, reading it again. And again. Wishing I could tell her. Wishing I could call her, or see her or just… fuck. Anything.
Me:
You’re the only thing keeping me from losing my mind today.
Cherry:
In that case, do you want to hear another confession?
God, yes. Anything. Anything she’ll give me. I want to know absolutely any shred of information she can tell me.
Me:
Uh oh. Another public humiliation? Don’t think I can survive the secondhand embarrassment.
It takes a few minutes for her to reply. I wonder what she’s doing, who she’s with, where she is. But then her message comes through.
Cherry:
I like talking to you.
My chest does that weird tight thing again. I try to ignore it. Can’t, though. It always happens when I talk to her, or think about her, or picture her, not that I can, but still.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air.
“Rhodes!” he shouts. “Phone away. Now.”
Fuck. Busted.
I quickly lock my screen, slipping it into my hoodie pocket, pretending like I wasn’t just flirting with my anonymous pen pal in the middle of practice.
Not that Cherry and I are flirting , really.
We’re just… talking. A lot. Constantly. Every night.
Most mornings. And sometimes when I’m supposed to be focusing on practice.
“C’mon, Coach. Let me on the ice,” I groan, pleading with him.
Coach doesn’t even look at me. Just points to the stack of pucks.
I lift my ass off the bench and do the work. With a lot of heavy sighs and theatrical grunts for good measure. But I do it. Because deep down, as much as I hate every second of this, I want back in. I want to play. I miss the adrenaline, the rush, the sound of my name being shouted from the stands.
And if shoveling pucks and setting up cones is what it takes to get there again?
Fine.
But I’m still complaining about it the whole damn way.