Chapter 2 #2
"Ah, Huxley." He holds up his hands like I'm the one being unreasonable. "I was just talking to my wife. What are you doing here? Try not to look like you're plotting murder, huh? Sponsors don't love that energy."
"Ex-wife," Scout corrects. "Very ex."
He laughs, looking at me like we're old friends sharing a joke. My eyes harden.
"Sure, bella. Whatever you say." Enzo edges closer and Scout takes a half-step back. That fucker.
I growl, "Enzo, she obviously doesn't want to talk to you. You shouldn't be back here anyway. Go rub elbows with rich sponsors like you're paid to do."
"You're prickly, aren't you?" His smile sharpens at the edges. "She's my ex-wife, not your problem."
The words land like a blade between my ribs. I don't flinch or react in any way. I just stare at him until his smile wavers at the corners. He pats my shoulder like he's patting a dog and drifts off down the hallway, still grinning at anyone who'll look his way.
Scout keeps staring down at her clipboard. Her throat works like she's swallowing something sharp. She doesn't lift her eyes.
"You shouldn't let him push you around," I say.
It comes out wrong, like a rebuke. I meant it to sound protective, but I hear criticism. She flinches and my chest tightens.
"Is that all?" Her voice is clipped, tight. "I'm working, Silas."
Shit. Scout is responding to me like I'm Enzo. I shouldn't be here, either.
I nod once and walk away because I don't know how to fix the raw thing in her expression. I don't know how to fix anything. It's obvious by now that I only know how to break things.
Scout looks broken enough already.
By the time I get back into the locker room, it's empty. I can hear the distant echoes of the announcer, getting ready to call us out onto the ice. I hurry to pull on my skates and curse myself. I already got distracted and the game hasn't even started yet. Not a good sign.
I make it out just as the announcer is calling me out onto the ice. "Anchoring the blue line for your Seattle Havoc, six-foot-eight of pure shutdown power. Give it up for #12, Silas Huxley!"
Once I'm on the ice, I feel steadier. With all the drama, I nearly forgot that we're playing a game against the Anaheim Voltage, a team that we usually have no trouble trouncing.
The cold air bites sharp in my lungs. My skates bite into fresh ice.
The puck ticks clean against my blade. Here, things make sense.
There's order. There’s control. There are rules that don't change.
For the first few minutes of the game, the Havoc look good.
Our team captain, Alex Thorne, wins a clean faceoff.
Beck hammers a perfect dump-in along the boards.
Hunter pins a defenseman and forces a turnover.
A Voltage player tries a tricky move to get around me, but I block him with my body, using my left shoulder to check him aggressively into the boards.
Thorne seals the wall on defense. For just a breath, I almost believe we might actually be okay this season.
Then the wobble creeps in.
I always feel it first when the team starts to slide. It's like the ice tilts under my skates.
Kozlov, a vet who should know better, mishandles the puck on the blue line. It bounces out to center ice. Connor's stick is a beat too slow on a lift. Jett, our starting goalie, saves it at the last second. Everybody breathes, like we're saved.
But I don't. I file the mistakes away. They make little red marks on the map in my head.
I push my body harder to cover other players' gaps. I make faster crossovers. Stick in every passing lane. I clear the crease until my shoulder screams in protest. Hunter takes a stupid retaliatory penalty after a clean hit. Of course he does. Two minutes shorthanded.
I block a shot with my ribs and stay on my feet even though my breath disappears. We kill the penalty. My chest still burns.
The unraveling keeps coming. Grayson screams obscenities at a linesman and costs us a whistle.
Jett tries to walk the puck through three defenders instead of just clearing it to safety.
The bench swings from rage to silence and back again.
Beck mutters curses under his breath like they might tilt the ice in our favor.
Hunter paces, jaw working, ready to snap at anyone who gets close. He’s a fucking hothead and even marrying his pretty little wife Juliet has only taken so much off the edge of his rage. Connor Li and Shane Villareal, two of our best rookies, watch Hunter and seem to shrink into themselves.
I catch sight of Enzo in the stands during a line change.
He's shaking hands with sponsors, laughing too loud, playing to the crowd.
I don't look directly at him, but I feel his presence like a weight. The whistle blows and I can’t wait to get off the ice.
Anything that takes me away from him is worth it.
I know I need to think about finding a replacement for him, but that’s low on my list. Too many other things to deal with at the moment.
Then I spot Hunter and Juliet near the tunnel.
They're not doing anything dramatic. Hunter's hand just rests at the small of her back, protective and easy. Juliet leans into him like it's the most natural thing in the world. They fit together like puzzle pieces, as though they were designed specifically for each other.
Something twists hard in my gut.
My brother doesn't know how fucking lucky he is. I'll never be soft enough, open enough, or good enough for someone to lean on like that. The thought sits heavy in my chest as I vault back over the boards for my next shift.
By the third period, the math in my head has already written the ending. Our possession is slipping. Scoring chances are bleeding away. We're going to lose.
And we do.
The buzzer makes it official. Three to one. Another loss to add to the pile.
The locker room mood is sour the second I step into it.
Hunter slams his stick into the wall hard enough to crack the composite.
Jett mutters to himself; he's always taken losses harder than anyone else on the team.
Beck strips tape off his stick like he's skinning something.
Grayson laughs too loud at nothing and no one joins him.
Then comes the silence, thick and suffocating. Normally, it's my friend. But not right now.
I strip off my pads, hang my jersey, and take a shower hot enough to sting. Putting on my suit, I make sure I'm gone before the trainers finish cleaning equipment. The rot in the air makes me want to choke.
The tunnel is mostly empty when I walk through. Scout's crouched by an equipment cart, her braid half undone, cross-checking itineraries on a clipboard. Her eyes look raw and red-rimmed.
I should keep walking, but my feet don't want to comply. They stop without consulting me and my mouth opens to speak before I can shove the words back in. "Why are you crying?"
It comes out like an accusation. I didn't mean it that way, but that's how it sounds.
She freezes, her back stiffening, but she doesn't look at me. "What do you care?"
I stuff my hands in my pockets. "Is this about Enzo? You shouldn't let him get to you. He’s a bastard."
Her mouth trembles. Fresh tears slip down her cheeks anyway. She ducks her head. I take a step closer without thinking about it. The scent of eucalyptus and something floral clings to her. Lavender, maybe. It knocks loose the careful order in my head.
Before I can stop my hand, I almost reach out to touch her shoulder. My fingers twitch with the need to make things better. But of course, I don't. I can't. The wall inside me holds.
"Don't cry over him," I say. "He’s not worth the mud on the bottom of your shoes."
The words come out rough and wrong. She snaps upright and her clipboard smacks into my chest. Her green eyes pierce me and hold me in place.
"I'm not crying over him." Her eyes shine, fierce and humiliated at the same time. "Not everything is about my ex-husband."
She walks away fast, leaving me like a gawping idiot, standing there like an idiot and watching her go.
Jett appears just as she disappears around the corner. He raises his eyebrows at me. "What'd you do?"
"Nothing."
"It didn't look like nothing."
I stare down the empty hallway, but Scout is gone. With a sigh, I turn to my brother. "Mind your own business."
“You’re such an ogre.” Jett smirks and claps my shoulder. "Try not to terrify the staff, Silas. We need them."
Jett's grin fades. "Mom called again."
I strip off my jersey. “I didn't answer when she called from the state pen.”
"Me either," Hunter says from across the locker room.
“I can’t believe that she still thinks she’ll get one of us to listen to her bullshit. She stole so much from all of us. Not just money, either,” Jett says.
“She was a pretty shitty mom,” I chime in.
“I think we can all agree on that,” Hunter grumbles.
Pulling his duffel bag over his shoulder, Jett says, “Last one there buys drinks.”
He heads out, still grinning. I'm about to follow when I spot a cluster of reporters near the exit.
One of them catches sight of me and his eyes light up like he's found prey.
My jaw tightens. I can feel the questions coming already.
Pointed jabs about my penalties, about being past my prime, about the team falling apart.
Hunter materializes at my elbow before I can make a mistake. He's solid. Steady.
"Keep walking," he says, his voice low. "Don't give them anything."
My fists curl at my sides. "They're going to ask about the penalties."
"Let them ask. You don't owe them answers." Hunter's hand lands on my shoulder. "Come on."
The tension in my chest eases by a fraction. I nod once. Hunter steers me toward the player exit, away from the cameras and the questions that would've made me snap.
I'm grateful for him. I don't say it out loud because I don't know how, but I feel it.
The drive home is silent. At home, I ice my shoulder and pull up a Sudoku puzzle, but the numbers blur together.
Scout's face keeps appearing in my head. Her tears. The sad look on her face when I tried to reassure her.
My phone lights up on the coffee table. The dating app notification glows. Yoga4Lyfe.
I set it face down without opening it.
Hockey comes first. It always has and it’s not changing. Scout is Enzo's ex-wife, which makes her off limits for about a dozen different reasons.
And there’s the fact that I don't do relationships.
So why does my shoulder ache less than my chest right now?
Kids wait by my car. Six or seven of them wearing Havoc jerseys that swallow them whole, clutching Sharpies and programs.
I should walk past them.
A little girl at the front has her arm in a cast. She looks at me like I'm supposed to matter.
"Can you sign my cast?"
Her voice comes out small. Hopeful. It pisses me off.
I crouch down. "What happened?"
"I fell playing hockey. Like you."
Something twists in my chest. "Hockey's hard."
"I know. But I'm not quitting."
"Good." I take the Sharpie and sign her cast carefully. "Don't quit. Wear your pads next time."
She beams like I just handed her the Stanley Cup. The other kids swarm forward with programs and jerseys. I sign everything they shove at me even though my hand cramps.
When the last one runs off, I stand up and catch Scout watching from across the lot.
I shove my hands in my pockets and walk past her. Whatever she thinks she figured out about me? I’m delighted for her to be wrong.