28. Tyler
TYLER
Two weeks into the new year, and I'm playing the best hockey of my career.
Two weeks since the laundry room, since Nora and I admitted we're in love, since everything changed and nothing changed at the same time.
We're together but hiding it, sleeping in separate rooms but sneaking kisses in the kitchen when Harper's napping, and maintaining a professional distance in public while being completely gone on each other in private.
It's torture. Beautiful, amazing, frustrating torture.
But my game's never been better. I'm focused and confident, playing like I have something to prove. Which I do—I have everything to prove. To Reaper, to the team, to myself.
Tuesday morning practice starts normally enough. Drills, conditioning, the usual rhythm. I'm on my game, hitting every pass, setting up plays, making the guys around me better.
And Reaper hates it.
I can see it in the way he watches me, the way his jaw clenches when Coach praises a play I made, the way he deliberately skates past me without acknowledgment during water breaks.
We're running a neutral zone drill, and I pick off a pass cleanly, turn it up ice, and feed Danny for a scoring chance. Clean execution, textbook play.
"Nice read, West," Coach calls out.
Reaper's glare could melt the ice.
Twenty minutes later, we're in a scrimmage. I'm backchecking hard, staying with my man, playing responsible two-way hockey. Reaper's on the opposite team, and every time we're on the ice together, I can feel the hostility radiating off him.
I'm battling for position in front of the net when it happens.
Reaper's stick comes up hard between my shoulder blades, a cross-check that's way more forceful than necessary. I stumble forward, catching myself on my hands, and before I can fully recover, he does it again. It’s harder this time, his stick driving into the same spot.
"What the fuck?" I grunt, getting to my feet.
"Keep your head up, West." Reaper skates away as if nothing happened.
The whistle doesn't blow. Coach saw it; I know he saw it because he's standing right there, but he doesn't call it.
Danny's at my side immediately. "You good?"
"Yeah."
I'm not good. My back is screaming, and I'm furious, but I can't show it. I refuse to give Reaper the satisfaction.
Practice continues, and it gets worse. Every shift that I'm out there with Reaper, he takes liberties. Rough checks along the boards, stick work that's borderline dirty, and physical intimidation that would definitely be penalties in a real game.
During another scrimmage, I'm skating hard on a breakout when Reaper hits me from behind. Not a legal check—not even close—and I go face-first into the boards so hard my helmet rattles. My lip catches on something, my mouthguard, maybe, and I taste blood.
I push off the boards slowly, my entire body throbbing, and this time the whistle finally blows.
But it's not for the hit. It's a normal stoppage.
Liam's at the bench when I skate over. "Dude. That was fucked up."
"It's fine."
"That's not fine. That's not even close to fine." He's looking at Reaper with open disgust. "Someone needs to say something."
"To whom? Coach?" I spit blood into my water bottle. "He doesn't care."
"This is bullshit, West."
It is bullshit. But it's also my reality, and I'm learning to live with it.
The rest of the practice is more of the same. Reaper is taking every opportunity to hit me harder than necessary, making it clear he owns this ice, and I'm barely tolerated. My ribs are bruised, my back is killing me, my lip is split, and by the time we hit the showers, I'm moving like an old man.
"You should report that," Danny says quietly in the locker room, nodding toward where Reaper's holding court with some of the veterans.
"Report what? Hockey?"
"That wasn't hockey. That was assault."
"I can handle it, Danny."
He doesn't look convinced, but he drops it.
I shower quickly, trying not to wince when the hot water hits my bruised ribs. In the mirror, I can see the damage—my lip is swollen and split, there's a bruise forming around my left eye, and my back is already showing dark purple marks.
I pull on my hoodie carefully, wincing at the movement, and head out before anyone can ask more questions.
The drive home takes twenty minutes, and I spend it trying to figure out how to hide this from Nora. She's going to notice. She notices everything. But I don't want her worrying; I don't want her involved in the ugly reality of my team dynamics.
I walk through the door at six twenty-three, dropping my bag quietly.
"Ty?" Nora's voice comes from the kitchen. "That you?"
"Yeah."
I head toward the kitchen, already formulating excuses, and find her at the stove with Harper in her bouncer nearby. She looks up when I walk in, and her smile immediately disappears.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Practice." I try to be casual, like this is no big deal. "Just hockey—"
She's already moving toward me, her hands reaching for my face. I try to pull back, but she's faster, her fingers gentle on my jaw as she examines my split lip and swelling eye.
"This is not 'just hockey.'" Her voice is tight with barely controlled anger. "Who did this?"
"Red, don't worry—"
"Of course I’m going to worry." She's looking at me now, really looking, and I can see the exact moment she notices how carefully I'm holding myself. "Take off your hoodie."
"Nora—"
"Now, Tyler."
I sigh and carefully pull my hoodie over my head, wincing when the fabric catches on my back. Nora's sharp intake of breath tells me she's seen the bruises.
"Oh, my god." Her fingers hover over the purple marks blooming across my ribs. "Tyler, this is—who did this to you?"
"Reaper. During practice. It's—"
"Don't you dare say it's normal." She's furious now, her hazel eyes flashing. "This is not normal. This is abuse."
"It's hockey, Red. It happens."
"Not like this, it doesn't." She's examining every bruise, every mark, her touch gentle even though I can see how angry she is. "Did Coach see this?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And nothing. He doesn't care."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hand still resting carefully on my ribs, and when she looks up at me, there are tears in her eyes.
"I hate this," she whispers. "I hate that he's hurting you and no one's stopping him."
"I can handle it."
"You shouldn't have to." She stands on her toes, pressing a careful kiss to my uninjured cheek. "Come on. Let me look at these properly. See if anything needs ice."
She guides me to sit at the kitchen table, Harper’s babbling happily in her bouncer, oblivious to the tension. Nora gets ice from the freezer, wraps it in a towel, and gently presses it to my eye.
"This is getting worse," she says quietly. "The way he's treating you. It's escalating."
"I know."
"Tyler, you can't let him—"
"What am I supposed to do, Red? Complain to Coach who doesn't care? Fight back and prove I'm the problem? Quit and give Reaper exactly what he wants?" I take the ice from her, holding it myself. "I have to survive it. That's all I can do."
She's quiet, and I can see her working through it, trying to find a solution to a problem that has none.
"I hate this," she says again.
"Yeah. But I'm okay. I promise."
Throughout dinner, I catch her watching me. Every time I wince when I move wrong, every time I shift trying to find a comfortable position, she notices. Harper's oblivious, eating her puréed sweet potato and making a mess, but Nora's hyperaware of every sign that I'm hurting.
After Harper's in bed, we end up on the couch like we do most nights now. Nora's careful about how she curls into my side, avoiding my ribs, and I'm grateful she doesn't push the Reaper thing anymore tonight.
"How bad is it really?" she asks quietly.
"Bad enough. But I've had worse."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"Yeah." I kiss the corner of her jaw. "But I'm here. I'm home. And nothing Reaper does on the ice matters when I have this waiting for me."
She tilts her head up, kissing me carefully, avoiding my split lip. "I'm still furious."
"But there's nothing you can do about it, so maybe we just don't think about it tonight?"
"Fine. But Tyler?" She looks at me seriously. "If it gets worse, if he really hurts you, you tell me. Immediately."
"I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise, Red."
She settles back against my chest, and we sit in comfortable silence, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on my stomach where there are no bruises.
Two weeks of being together but not together.
Two weeks of the best and worst at the same time.
But lying here with Nora, even bruised and battered, I wouldn't change a thing.
Because this—her in my arms, Harper sleeping upstairs, the life we're building—this is worth every hit Reaper can throw at me.
This is worth everything.