5. Meet Stella Gray
5
Meet Stella Gray
Exton
“Hey, Axe.” My lip curls up just at the sound of that fucker’s smug voice using my nickname—the one I don't remember allowing him to use.
“Skate away, Zima,” I grit out, but do you think he listens? Of-fucking-course, he doesn’t. He’s a shark that senses blood and wants his kill.
Yanis Zima is the defender for Ice Devils and the biggest asshole in the entire NHL. Hell, I’ll go as far as saying the whole world. And it’s no secret that Florida contracted him for that reason alone.
Out of the corner of my eye—because I refuse to look at him—I see the fake pout he’s pulling. “Are you not happy to see me?”
“I couldn’t care any less about you. Now skate away to your side. I don’t have any desire to deal with your ugly face before I absolutely must.” Which will be in about two minutes when the first period starts.
“Hey, I come in peace.” He raises both his palms up, the hockey stick in between in legs.
“Sure you do.” The fucker doesn’t know the meaning of the word peace. I go back to ignoring him, hoping he gets the memo, but of course, he doesn’t.
“I just wanted to thank you.” He skates around until he’s facing me again, and I see that smug look on his face that immediately makes my teeth grind to dust, but I rein myself in from punching him just yet and lift one eyebrow instead. It’s too early to blow my fuse, even for me.
“Whatever can you thank me for? For beating your ass during the last game?”
“Nah, that’s water under the bridge, plus I accepted your apology present—” Whatever else he planned to say gets cut off by the piercing sound of the whistle and the roar of the crowd that announces it’s time to start.
“Look at that, maybe there is a God out there after all and he saved me from listening to your bullshit.” Without waiting for his response, I skate away, back to our side and find Coach’s eyes already on me.
Here we fucking go…
“I swear to God, Quinn, if you get yourself in that box for painting his face red again, I’ll bench you so hard, you won’t even be able to smell the ice for the rest of the season.” His glare could melt the said ice around my feet. “Got it?”
I roll my eyes but nod anyway. Coach Hill is all bark but no bite—most of the time.
And yes, he did say “again.”
Zima and I have complicated history that goes way back to us being in junior league, and any time we clash on the ice it’s explosive. The last one being the worst yet where the fucker’s left eye was swollen shut. And I was suspended for two games.
Because no, that was not my first fight—or second or third—this season.
I really should have considered boxing as a kid, but the ice was calling my name. Or my heart that’s just as cold.
“I saw Zima on your ass already.” My teammate and one of the only friends I have, Severin—or Sava for short—bumps my shoulder and skates around me until I’m face to face with his ugly mug that all the girls seem to go crazy over, and he levels me with a look. “If you need him taken care of today, you let me deal with that, okay?”
Not sure how the resident bad boy—aka yours truly—and the angel of the league—aka Sava—became best friends. But here we are, five years later after Outlaws signed Severin Minaev on as a goalie, stealing him from New York and we’ve always been there for each other.
Honestly, I’m not sure anyone other than him with his angelic patience could handle being around me and my issues this much. So, thank fuck for him.
I let out a half laugh, half snort type of sound. “And you, what? Gonna leave the net to protect my pretty ass? Sorry to break it to you, mate, but all you’ve known about hockey is a lie. The defender is there for you, not the other way around.”
“I’ve seen your ass, Axe. It’s not pretty,” he deadpans.
“Liar.” I narrow my eyes at him, good-naturedly.
This is what I’ve become a professional at—redirection, cocky jokes, asshole attitude. It’s what I’m best at. And what protects me from flipping the switch that's been a bit too trigger happy this season.
“Please don’t let him get to you! Alice was not worth it.” My head whips to his so fast, I feel slightly faint.
“What do you mean?”
Sava visibly pales and I feel the hairs on my back stand. I close the distance between us, getting into his space. “What the fuck does that mean, Severin? Tell me!” I pressure him and when he just opens his mouth, his attitude changes and he relaxes.
“Nothing. Just that I was worried you were still upset over her.”
I huff with slight disgust. “Yeah, no. She was just a warm hole to fill. I’ll find another one soon enough.”
Alice was a convenient puck bunny I met a few months back. She was beautiful, available, and ready to go anytime. An outlet I needed. So, I enjoyed it up until a week ago when she wanted to take things to a new level .
Yeah, not fucking happening.
Fuck the new level.
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” He chuckles but that strain is still there. I want to press him about it, but he changes the subject too fast. “And don’t take anything Coach say too close to heart tonight, he’s got a lady to impress.” Sava waggles his eyebrows.
“A lady? Who?” I ask in disbelief, because in the twenty plus years I’ve known him, his only love has been hockey and making sure I die on this ice, but not outside it.
“There.” He points back to the bench and indeed, there is a woman sitting right behind the glass and they are chatting—as much as that Plexiglass and the crowd will allow them to. She looks to be right around the same age as him—late fifties, short and tiny but the way she holds herself is impressive.
Stern, strong, untouchable in a way. Her dark hair in a stylish pixie cut and those eyes of hers seem to see too much. “Maybe Coach is finally getting some.” I grin, and it’s as if she knew I was talking about them because those eyes I just mentioned? Yeah, they are set on me and not in a “I’m-a-fan” kind of way.
“She’s scary.” Severin shivers next to me.
“Sure as fuck is. Who knew Coach was one kinky bastard?” We both break out laughing and get into our positions.
It takes me a second to realize this laugh is genuine, not the forced kind I’ve been pushing out of myself for months now.
Fuck…it feels good. But I know it won’t last. The memories from September are still too raw, four months later.
He just needed to fuck with me one last time. Even when he’s gone, my father refuses to let me move on. And just like that, I’m out for blood.
Fuck. The switch flipped too fast today, and it would be painful to realize what I’ve turned my favorite place into if I wasn’t so far gone in my hate.
I used to love this. The smell of adrenaline and the crowd. The sound of ice slashing against your blades. The thrill. The chase. The blood. Now I need it.
I take a deep breath, desperately trying to remember what I’m here for.
Play hockey. Defend. Score. And yes, fight, but only to defend. Not instigate.
We need to win this game and all the fuckers in my life won’t stop me.
Well, that was a big fat lie…
“WHAT THE FUCK did I tell you before the game?” Coach booms before he even steps a foot into the locker room, and half the guys wince from that tone alone. But I don’t have it in me to wince.
I’m too busy boiling in my own rage over here.
No, I didn’t get into a fight. Yet. But I’ve landed in the penalty box three times already because of the fucker, and we just finished the first period. So, it’s safe to say that fists will be flying in no time.
“I’m talking to you, Exton!” Coach repeats right as he steps inside, but I keep my back to him, not willing to see how pissed he is at me.
Everyone thinks of their coaches differently. Some love them, some hate, respect, or tolerate. But for me, Coach Hill is like a father, and you know when you were a kid and your parents said they were disappointed in you, and it felt ten times worse than if they would actually punish you somehow?
Yeah, that’s how it feels now—have felt for this whole season—only I’m still a little too high on my rage scale to swallow my snarky comebacks.
“Not to paint his face red,” I grumble back. “Which I didn’t. Yet.”
“Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you, Quinn?” I’m pretty sure that was a rhetorical question. But once again, I can’t keep my mouth shut, preferring to dig a nice deep hole for myself, right along my father. Hell, maybe then it will finally feel better?
“I’m the life of a party.” Yet there’s no humor in my voice.
“I’m going to show you the fucking life of a party. If you as much as breathe his way this next period, you are out! Fooley, you are going to replace Quinn. Jackson, you’ll go in instead of Fooley,” he rambles out the possible changes in lines and that gets me to turn around.
“You don’t seriously expect me to ignore him? This is bloody hockey!”
“Then play it! Not pretend to be the next Muhammed Ali!”
I dig my fingers into the wood of my shelf.
“Coach!”
“WHAT?” he roars again. “Coach, what? Since when are you best friends with Ice Devils?”
“The fuck?”
“Oh, you’re not?” He shakes his head at me with a mocking expression. “Because it sure looked like you were. Gifting them six minutes of power play for bullshit reasons while you rest you pretty ass in the box.”
“I didn—” I start but he doesn’t let me finish.
“Not to mention your interference with Goram’s goal! What the bloody fuck was that? Wait, don’t answer because it couldn’t be any more clear tonight how selfish you are! You wanted to shove that puck up Zima’s ass and stole the perfectly good chance from Goram to even out the score.”
At the mention of it, I catch Goram’s angry eyes and clenched jaw in my periphery. Yeah, I took his goal and ran with it. I had the puck, I was supposed to pass it over to him but instead, I saw it as an opportunity to fly past Zima’s smug face and that was it.
My anger only simmers some more as I realize that once again, I’ve let down my own team. “Two goals! Fucking Yanis Zima scored two goals, and you are a bloody idiot who didn’t see what he intended to do from the start! They needed you out of the way and now they have it.”
Whatever rage was slowly dissipating from my veins is back. Oh, it’s so back. I turn around abruptly and smash my fist in the cabinet, splitting my knuckles. “You didn’t hear what he was saying,” I grit out, clutching the wood in front of me.
Every chance he had, he threw snide remarks my way. None of them made much sense but each one made me more and more pissed.
“I don’t give a damn what he was saying! This is the NHL, not high school, and I thought I taught you better than that. The game is not about you, Exton! It’s about the bloody team, and tonight your efforts made their night that much harder. Good job!”
I hear a faint “prick” trickle in from someone in the back.
Damn it, there goes that guilt, and I release it the only way I know. I smash my fist into the cabinet again and again until I feel my own blood dripping down and the disapproving eyes of my teammates drilling into the back of my head.
“Enough, Axe.” Severin pulls me back.
“No, why did you stop him, Minaev? He’s paying for that anyway, might as well let him enjoy it,” Coach says sarcastically and then mumbles, “Un-fucking-believable. This is your last chance, Quinn, you got it?” And walks out the door.
“And the second period is off to a hasty start with Outlaws winning the toss up. Goram flying past the Devils, pass to Zlatan, pass back to Goram.”
“Goram couldn't hold on to it. It's jammed on the near side. Goram played it to Fooley. Shot. No, Silverstone fought it off. Ice Devils will now push it deep into Outlaws zone.”
“Goram is back on the puck but Zima intercepts it slamming Goram into the wall.”
“Zima in possession as he drags it into the neutral zone. Oooo, that’s Quinn for you. He swipes it right out from Zima.”
“Zlatan is open with a clear path to shoot. Zima is back on Quinn. Eh, it doesn't look like it's about the puck anymore. Quinn pushes Zima away, still in possession of the puck.”
“Whoa! That's a penalty right there.”
“Yep. Zima cross-checked Quinn with a stick right in the face. Refs are flying but I think it’s too late. Quinn is off.”
“Oh, oh, here they go! This was brewing in the air since the start of the game. Quinn’s gloves are flying off as he takes a swing at Zima.”
“Ohhh, that’s a hard hit.”
The crowd is roaring, the Plexiglass around the perimeter shaking violently as they keep banging on it.
“The helmets are off. And that’s a split lip and I think an eyebrow as well on Zima’s face.”
“Quinn got a handful of his jersey. The hits keep coming as Quinn holds Zima down.”
“This has gotten out of control. I haven’t seen this in a long time!”
“You can expect something will be done about it, no doubt.”
“That’s Minaev going at Finnigan. Goalie on goalie. And now everyone is fighting. Ohhhh.”
“As much as I love seeing the good old days come back, this is something that the NHL is trying to get rid of and we are sure to expect a lot of suspensions coming from this fight.”
“And, well, Quinn’s future is murky at best now…”
I run my bloody knuckles against the door and get a tired “Come in, Quinn” in return.
My game finished a lot sooner than I wanted it to. But the game for everyone else just wrapped up an hour ago. We lost, and I, along with the rest of the team, know who’s to blame. The second that buzzer sounded, I wanted to get the fuck out of the arena as soon as I could, get wasted and laid and forget about my screw ups but Coach demanded my presence in his office. So I had to sit, wait, and endure the interview, the questions, and sneers from the fans. While the puck bunnies were throwing themselves over me, offering to take care of me, clean my cuts, calm me…what the fuck did they know about calm?
I couldn’t hold it; I was throwing out “fucks” like that’s all I had in me. I’m not one to care what people think of me as a person, but I sure as hell do when it comes to me as a hockey player.
This is all I know. All I’ve ever been good at. I played for Vegas Blaze for a year, but Boston Outlaws have been my home since I returned here and there is a sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach that it might not be for much longer.
I’ve fucked up one too many times this season. And I’ve fucked up Zima’s face bad enough tonight that it would be enough for anyone to kick me out.
A twisted thought crosses my mind, would it be that bad? Maybe I should be thrown out. They don’t need me like this! They don’t need this shit every fucking game and I can’t seem to stop. All it takes is one spark. One small look or word and I’m off the fucking hinges.
It’s as if I need that punishment. Need someone else to hate me as much as I hate myself.
And just like that my already sour mood turns downright vile.
Fuck this shit. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be free of my past. So why the fuck does it keep haunting me.
“Here to report for punishment,” I say the moment I step through the door. Coach Hill’s office is the true testament to how brilliant Outlaws are. We’ve won a few cups over the years and countless games as a whole, and standing in here now seeing all of it is like a knife to the heart.
“And he still thinks he’s fucking hilarious.” Coach shakes his head at me, and I hang mine as my foot stars a nervous tap dance on the floor.
No, in fact, I don’t think I am at all. I simply don’t have much of a filter or self-preservation. Not when that rage is still strong and potent in my blood.
“I’m done with your shit, Exton.” He delivers with dead calmness, the kind the sends ice over my blood. “What the fuck is going on with you this season?”
“Nothing.” My voice is barely audible as I give him the same answer I’ve repeated for the past four months.
“Nothing,” he mocks me. “If you think I’ll sit here and beg you to tell me what that ‘nothing’ actually means”—he air quotes me—“you are shit out of luck. Because in my book nothing is nothing and if that’s the case then you are no longer valuable to Outlaws as a player. We don’t need nothing here, we need everything!” And the knife twists.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m the best defender in the league! I was a first-round draft pick. I score more than any other defender out there—”
He interrupts my speech with his even tone. “And yet here we are. Losing to a lesser team because of your best self. Sending Zima to a hospital because of your best self. Having half the team bruised and beaten up, because of your best self.”
“Coach, you don’t mean…” I trail off, terrified to even utter the words I’ve taught out loud because for the first time in my life, I’m terrified. Yes, I might be cocky as shit but that’s because I know how good I am. I know my worth as a hockey player and if that is taken away from me…I don’t even want to entertain that thought.
It’s the only thing that keeps me afloat. The only thing that keeps that hatred and anger at bay. And if I lose that? What then?
But haven’t you already? Look around, Axe…
“That’s exactly what I mean, Exton.” He lets out a heavy, tired sigh and my heart sinks. “You know I love you like my own. But I can’t help you if you refuse to tell me what’s got you twisted into an angry pretzel these days. And I just won’t put up with this childish attitude anymore.”
“Coach, you can’t kick me out! My contract—”
“Is being discussed by the team owners as we speak.”
Boom. The last string that was keeping me alive, is broken and all I feel is this crushing sensation. This never-ending fall.
Fucking hell… Now what?
The urge to punch something is strong. No, that’s not the right word, it’s overpowering my senses, and I feel my fists curl up tightly as my mind fills with red.
Some call this anger issues…I call it coping mechanism.
“But…” he says, and my head snaps up immediately. “We have a deal for you.”
“What kind of deal?” I ask, my voice high on skepticism. If they offer me to warm the bench and be a “vegetable” kind of player—that’s what I lovingly call our reserve players—they can go fuck their deal right off.
“Exton, meet Stella Gray.” Coach extends his hand to his right side where that same scary woman with a pixie cut sits on the couch. How the hell did I miss her being in the room until now? But now that I know she’s here, I feel her assessing gaze on me, peering inside my very soul in search of what, I have no idea. But I’m sure I don’t have it.
I’m made up of hockey, anger, and a good dose of self-hatred. That’s it. And unless that’s what she needs from me—which I doubt—I can’t be of help.
“Stella, I’m sure you’ve seen enough already, but here is the Exton “Axe” Quinn, per your request.” Per her request?
What the fuck?
The question must be splayed all over my face because Coach chuckles silently.
“What’s going on here? And who are you exactly, Stella Gray?” I fold my arms, assessing her from top to bottom like she is doing to me.
“I am your only chance to get back on the ice.” Her voice is cold and hard enough for my spine to straighten up. She looks and sounds like that one teacher every student fears more than death itself.
“I don’t understand.” I exhale loudly.
“Exton, you are officially benched until further notice. That further notice depends on a condition. And the condition belongs to Stella. If you succeed in your assignment and we get into the playoffs, we will reconsider your spot on the team but as of now, your contract is on hold.”
“Just so we are all aware here, I play hockey, not participate in STEM! Use normal people language.”
I swear I see her stern expression thaw for just a second and her lips twitch into a smile, but it’s gone as soon as it got there.
“You, my prickly pear, are going to make sure my little star gets back on the ice.”