Chapter 7
Zayden
Practice ended thirty minutes ago. Most of the guys are already gone.
But not me.
This is when the real practice begins.
You don’t get to be the star of the team by leaving early. Not when your dad’s the head coach. Not when your last name is Aldenhurst.
People think I have it easy, that everything has been handed to me.
They don’t see this part. The extra hours I have to put in, or the way he talks to me when no one else is around.
The constant corrections. The clipped disappointment, like I’m one mistake away from proving everyone right, that I’m only here because of him.
Because in this school, the Aldenhurst name isn’t just legacy, it’s dynasty. My dad went pro before a terrible accident ended his career. His father before him was a legend and the school director. His great-grandfather was one of the founders of the school.
The legacy runs so deep it’s practically stitched into the damn ice. Except my skin doesn’t look like theirs. And every time I hit the ice, it feels like I’m still trying to earn something that was written into my blood but never shaped for someone who looks like me.
So I push harder, skate faster, and hit harder, like I have to compensate for the fact that my skin is not as fair as his. Like I need to earn what’s already mine, even when I’m bleeding for it.
My legs are on fire, but I drop back into the drill anyway.
Sprint.
Pivot.
Tight crossover.
Sharp pass.
Shoot.
Top right.
It’s still not good enough.
“That hesitation at the line was lazy,” he calls.
“I recovered,” I snap.
“You don’t go pro by hesitating.”
The words land harder than they should.
Go pro. Right. That’s the goal, isn’t it? Or is that just his goal?
He skates toward me, eyes stern on mine, and his voice is even colder now. “You’re a third-year, Zayden. This is the year that matters. You either want this, or you don’t.”
He studies me for half a second longer before returning to his clipboard like he’s already written me off.
The whistle blows.
“Again.”
My lungs are burning, my body’s screaming, but I move anyway. Because if I stop, I’ll have to ask the question that’s been in the back of my mind for years now.
Do I even want this? Or am I just chasing approval from a man who’s never once looked at me like a son?
What I need is a father, not a coach.
I finish the last drill in silence and wait for him to say something.
“That’s all for today.” Then he’s gone like he didn’t just tear me down for an hour straight.
No, “Good job today, Zayden.”
I stand there for a second, stick hanging from my hand, chest still heaving. Then I skate off, slowly, pulling off my gloves as I go.
The locker room is empty, and my gear bag is still half-zipped where I left it earlier.
I strip out of my pads in silence, peeling off sweat-soaked layers until I’m just in my base gear.
My body aches, and my head’s killing me, but it’s nothing compared to the hollow space in my chest. I don’t even bother taking a shower; I’ll have one back at my dorm.
The metal locker door creaks as I swing it open. My jacket hangs inside, along with my backup hoodie and a folded beanie I’ve had since my first year here.
My eyes linger on the jacket for a second as my father’s words replay in my head. “You either want this, or you don’t.”
Does he even care about me and what I want? Or am I just a legacy to maintain? I just want him to look at me, once, like a father, not a coach.
I grab the jacket and shut the locker harder than I need to. I take one more deep breath before pulling on the hoodie, shoving my hands in my pockets, and heading for the exit.
I don’t take the tunnels, not tonight. It’s quiet, just the way I like it. Snow flurries swirl in the dark like ash. A few students are walking between buildings. I cut across the glass bridge that leads to the dormitories, the frozen lake black beneath it.
Ahead is Ravensbourne Hall, bold and large with gray stones that look dark in the night. Tall, bare trees stretch upward like skeletal hands. From afar, they look like shadows. Behind them, the arched window expands high across each floor, glowing light coming from within.
I push through the heavy oak doors and step into the main lobby. The scent hits me first, cedarwood from the fireplace across from the velvet armchairs and bergamot.
The dining hall sits behind the lounge for students who would rather eat here instead of the dining hall back on the main academic campus. It’s filled with broad walnut tables and chandeliers hanging from above.
I pass through without stopping, taking the stone staircase up to the third floor. It opens to the floor lounge—a shared space where students go to unwind and have fun. Each floor has one. This is where legacy kids like me do whatever they want.
The smell of cigars hits me instantly.
A few students sit around a grand chessboard near the fireplace, completely focused. Two guys are deep into their poker games. A tray of drinks sits next to them while cigars burn in a crystal tray, along with empty tumbler glasses on top of coasters branded with our school’s crest.
To my right, a couple is making out in the corner, half hidden behind a towering bookshelf. Her legs hook around his hips, and his hands are everywhere.
Nothing I haven’t seen before.
At Valcérre, as long as you keep your grades up, show up to practices, and do what you are supposed to do during the day, they don’t care what you do at night.
You can drink, gamble, screw around. Just don’t kill each other.
I make a left down the hallway toward my suite, swipe my key card, and step inside.
Three of us live here.
Jasper is in his spot on the armchair, feet resting on the coffee table and his laptop open in front of him as he types away. Cameron is shirtless on the couch with a girl on his lap.
I nod once and keep walking. My room is at the end, with a private bathroom and small sitting area. The door closes behind me as I lean against it and let my bag fall on the floor. I stand there for a few seconds, trying not to think about it, but my mind goes there anyway.
I used to count the seconds until I got home, especially after a rough practice. My mom would be waiting. One hug from her and everything would be okay.
Later, they would argue about how he was pushing me too hard, and he’d yell at her to stop babying me.
I pull away from the door and move toward my bed. My back hits the mattress, and I stare at the ceiling.
No headphones, no music, just silence, thick enough to choke me, but I need it, crave it even.
Silence means no yelling.
No father telling me I’m too weak or too soft.
No expectations.
I curl my arms around myself like I can hold all my broken pieces together.
A soft knock breaks through my thoughts before the door pushes open and Jasper steps in, dropping into the lounge chair across from my bed.
“You good, mate?”
I let out a groan instead of answering.
“That bad, huh?” He leans forward with elbows on his knees.
I exhale through my nose. “No matter how much I push myself, it’s never good enough for him.”
My eyes are still on the ceiling, but Jasper is watching me.
“Maybe it’s not about you, Z?”
I glance at him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, leaning back into his seat. “Sometimes it feels like he’s trying to make up for something, like he needs you to make it not just for you, but for him, too.”
Make up for what?
The question settles in my chest, like parts of me already know something that I don’t.
I shake the thoughts off, sliding my hand over my jaw. “He’s just obsessed with the Aldenhurst legacy and control.”
The silence stretches in the room before I pull myself off the bed, needing a shower to wash off the sweat and tension from practice. I cross the room toward the bathroom, leaving Jasper to himself.
The hot water helps with my sore muscles, but it does nothing to drown out my thoughts. I brace my hands against the tile and let the water spray over me, trying to wash off everything, practice, my father’s voice, Jasper’s words. Closing my eyes, I let the water do what it can.
Once I’m finished, I return to my room, lie on my bed, close my eyes, and will my body to let go. The moonlight bleeds through the tall windows, casting pale shadows across the floor.
I put on my earbuds and hit play on my playlist. Soft piano melody, no words. It’s supposed to help me sleep, but not tonight. I count the seconds between each breath and pretend the pressure behind my ribs isn’t there, coiling like wire.
My body is exhausted, but my brain won’t shut off. It’s like too many emotions are trying to break through at once, all crashing into each other. But I can’t let them in. I shove them down like I always do. My chest aches from holding it all in, and I can’t breathe through the pain.
I sit up, grab my skates by the bed, and pull my hoodie on before walking out. I stop at Jasper’s door, but the light is off. He’s probably asleep, but I send him a text anyway.
Zayde: Going out for some fresh air.
A few seconds pass.
Then three dots blink across the screen.
A reply comes in.
Jasper: Done. Go.
I don’t smile, but something in my chest eases.
He knows to cover the feed in the cameras so no one notices me sneaking around. I put my phone back in my pocket and quietly slip out into the hallway.
It’s past eleven, and the campus is mostly quiet, except for a few students sneaking between dorms.
I keep my hood up and my head down, cutting across the bridge and past the east buildings. The trees bend around me like they’re watching.
No one sees me.
Ten minutes later, I slip through the rusted door of the old athletics wing and head down the dark stairs.
And there it is.
The Shadow Rink.
They don’t talk about it on campus anymore. Not officially. But everyone’s heard something. That it was shut down after an accident. That someone got hurt. That it’s cursed.
I make my way to the benches and lace up my skates. The moment I step onto the ice, everything else disappears.
No drills.
No shouting.
No expectations. Which means no disappointments.
Just me and the ice.
The weight in my chest loosens. My legs move on instinct, muscle memory taking over. One hard push, and I’m gliding. I pick up speed, starting with crossovers, leaning into the turns, before launching into a left forward inside twizzle that rotates clockwise. My mind clears with every rotation.
Here, I don’t have to be the coach’s son. Or the Aldenhurst legacy. Or anything at all. I can just skate until my legs burn, not because I have to, but because I want to.
Picking up speed, I glide into a forward spiral, stretching my leg behind me and letting the ice carry me. Each jump, each spin, each push of my blades carves away the tension from earlier, bringing back a sliver of that joy, that freedom I used to feel when skating with mum.
My father was away most of the time with the national team before his accident.
Mum and I would spend hours skating on the frozen lake at our mansion.
She’d laugh as I tried spins I couldn’t fully control yet.
Her laughter would fill me with warmth even though it was freezing outside.
Then she’d help me, telling me I could do it.
I remember the pride I felt when I finally landed a spin perfectly, the way her eyes would sparkle like I’d done something magical.
The memory stings because she left.
I push myself harder, trying to outrun the anger, the ache, and the longing in my chest. Until my legs burn, my mind numbs, and the ice is all that exists.