Chapter 2
Axel
Thud,thud, thud.
The pounding outside my room sounds like a herd of cattle running down the hall.
This is what it’s like living with three other hockey players.
“Reid! Shut the hell up!” I shout, face pressed into my pillow. “It’s the goddamn middle of the night!” Even though the words come out in a rasp, the sound of my voice reverberates back, shuddering against my temple.
Thud, thud, thud.
I blink, or try. My eyelids are heavy.
Jesus.
That’s not cattle. Or my roommates.
That pounding is coming from inside my head.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
The voice drags me out of sleep. The female voice or rather, the hand of the female under the sheets wrapped around my–
Holy boner!
I force my eyes open, the glare of the sunlight harsh and painfully bright coming from my bedroom window. It shouldn’t be this hard to look over at the girl holding onto me like a hockey stick. When I finally peel them open, a blonde is grinning back. “Morning.”
Even with the bedsheet crease on her cheek and bedhead, she’s cute. I can see why I brought her home, but I also have no freaking idea who she is. No memory of… fuck, much of anything. I drop my eyes to her chest. How the hell did I forget those tits?
She frowns, her lips parting downward. “You okay?”
I rub my face. It feels numb, like I’m still wasted. “Yeah, sorry. My head is killing me.”
How much did I have to drink?
She licks her bottom lip and I see the glint of gold on her throat. Squinting, I make out the name Chantelle etched across a flat disk. “How about we do what we didn’t get to last night because you passed out and then we can head over to the dining hall for Sunday brunch. They have the best waffles and it’s still open for another hour.”
The mention of food makes my stomach roll, and not in a hungry sort of way. I fight back a gag, and blink again, trying to clear the cobwebs in my head. “Sunday?”
“Yeah, Sunday.” The look Chantelle gives me makes it pretty clear she thinks I’m a total dumbass.
Which I am, but not for the reason she thinks.
I take her hand off my cock and look around for my phone. “I gotta go.”
“Now?”
“I’m late.” Not sure how much, but from the brightness of the room and the quiet of the house, it’s too late.
“For what?”
“Practice.” Hopping out of bed, I spot my phone sticking out of my jeans pocket. I pull it out. Fuck fuck fuck. Thirty minutes.
“So after passing out on me half-limp last night, you’re not even up for morning sex?”
That doesn’t sound like me–the limp part. I mean whiskey-dick is a real thing, but in general, my cock is always ready to please and to be pleased. And if not that, I’m happy to eat pussy and show my partner a good time. A tiny part of me wants to tell her to wait for me to get back and I’ll make it up to the both of us, but another part knows I’m not going to be in the mood for it. Or maybe even alive for it.
Reese is gonna kill me.
AfterCoach Bryant makes me suffer.
Fucking great. My last act in this world will be having a limp-dick and passing out with a hot chick in my bed. That’s what finally gets me moving, my reputation, despite the impending berating and punishment from my coach.
“Sorry, babe,” I tell her, rushing toward the bathroom, “but I’m late.”
Woah. I sway, catching myself on the sink counter and close my eyes, counting to ten to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body. When I think I can manage it, I look up, catching my reflection in the mirror. I’m still getting used to the ‘stache. Every time I see my reflection it takes me by surprise, but today that’s not what catches me off guard. It’s the half moon of dark shadows under my eyes, and the dry and chapped lips. My skin, under the tattoos, is pale. I tilt my head and frown, thumbing at the red spot on my neck.
“You gave me a fucking hickey?” I glance over my shoulder and see her still sitting in the middle of the bed, scrolling on her phone. She shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
Jesus, the guys will never let me live this down.
Splashing water on my face, I try to wake up, but this is worse than any other hangover I’ve had. If I can call it a hangover. I think I’m still drunk. I’ve got a pretty hardcore reputation as a partier–I won’t deny it–but getting blackout isn’t my thing.
Maybe it was the weed?
Or maybe, like Reese keeps telling me, I’ve got to slow down.
That’s easy for him to say. He’s got this master plan and has been pushing towards it his entire life. He knows what he wants, and his goals align with his family, our coach, and his girl.
But I’m running out of time. Once these four years are up, the party ends. My fate is sealed. So I may as well have fun while I can.
No regrets, right?
Quickly, I brush my teeth, trying to remove the taste of cotton and death out of my mouth, then grab my Wittmore hockey hoodie and pull it over my head. My laundry is in a pile on the floor and I rummage around for a semi-clean pair of sweats. Chantelle watches me cram my feet into running shoes and shove my phone in my pocket.
“When will you be back?”
“Uh,” I turn the doorknob. “A while. Pretty sure, I’m gonna be paying for being late.”
“I can wait.”
Oh, Chantelle. Pretty, perky-tits, Chantelle. Whatever happened the night before, and from everything I can tell, it was a big nothing, is definitely not happening again. “Sleep in,” I tell her. “Or go get those waffles, but don’t wait.”
Her jaw drops, but I’m out of the room before she responds further. There’s no time. I head down the stairs and sure enough, the house is empty. The kitchen table cluttered with the remains of a hasty breakfast.
They could have at least woken me up.
I start down the street toward the arena. It’s walking distance, thank god, because I’m pretty sure if I drove right now, I’d get pulled over for a DUI.
One of the perks of living in Shotgun, the community just on the edge of campus, is its proximity not only to the university, but to the ice arena. It’s a former mill town, the majority of the houses ‘shotgun’ style. Rooms stacked one behind the other, so that you can see from the front door straight through to the back. Our house is bigger–The Manor–the former home of the mill owner.
My stomach surges right when I’m outside the Teal House–the brightly painted, skinny house Twyler and Nadia live in. “Oh shit,” I mutter, glancing around. It’s quiet out, everyone still recovering from the night before. I lurch toward a small bush in the corner of the yard and heave.
Sorry, girls.
Emptying my stomach makes me feel slightly better. I’m sweating, a cold, uncomfortable sensation as the toxins weep out of my skin. Swiping my access card in the arena door, I step inside and let the cool air wash over me, providing a hint of sweet relief.
I made it.
If I played a line, it’s possible I’d be able to just slip in with the others, mixing in with the pads and helmets swarming around the ice, but I’m a goalie–the starting goalie. Not only is my uniform different, I practice different, and there’s no fucking way Coach isn’t going to notice. My plan is to suit up, get my ass on the ice, and beg for forgiveness.
I’m not above groveling.
Turning the corner to the locker room, I stop short, confused because everyone is still here. And not even dressed out. They’re all still in sweats, standing around–no–standing in a line.
I wrack my brain trying to remember if something special was scheduled for today.
Jefferson, my third roommate, sees me and shakes his head. “About time you showed up.”
Jeff is on the starting line, a kick ass defender. Not quite as uptight as Captain America over there, but he’s not a slacker, that’s for sure.
“A wake up call would’ve been nice.” I open my locker and shoving my bag inside.
“Dude, we tried to wake you up. Banged on your door for five minutes.”
“Bullshit.” There’s no way I slept through that.
“Reid even went inside.”
Reid is three people down the line. I grab his shoulder and spin him around. “You came in my room?”
“To wake you up!” He holds up his hands. “I swear I didn’t see anything.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The girl. As soon as I saw you weren’t alone I backed out. Figured you didn’t want to be interrupted.” His eyes dart to my throat. “Guess she was too busy leaving a mark.”
Ah, Chantelle strikes again. I rub the spot where I saw the hickey in the mirror.
“Next time, wake me up. Chick or no chick.” I exhale, realizing it’s pointless to be upset at them. I’m the one that fucked up. I nod to the line. “What’s this about anyway?”
Jefferson jerks his chin toward Green’s office and the two guys wearing white lab coats. “The NCAA showed up this morning.”
A sinking feeling fills my gut. “The committee?”
“Random drug tests,” Reid says. “Bryant’s pissed about not getting any notice.”
“They always pull this shit when a team starts doing well,” Jefferson adds.
We’re not just doing well, we’re killing it. Undefeated and on track to finish up what we started last year–winning the Frozen Four.
And I just fucked it up for everyone.
“Rakestraw! Get your ass in here.”
After pissing into a cup and handing over a vial of blood to the drug tester, Coach Bryant does his best to kill us.
You’d never know we’re undefeated.
But that’s the kind of coach Bryant is. That’s why he’s a legend, with more Frozen Four wins than any other coach in the league. When we’re winning that’s when he steps on the gas. Pushes us harder. More time on the ice, reps in the gym, hours watching film. He doesn’t slack off and neither do we.
Which is one reason I feel sick standing outside his office. I’d barely taken off my pads, when my name was called out with two others–freshmen. Every eye in the locker room was filled with both pity and irritation. Reese didn’t even look at me, just tossed his dirty practice uniform in the bin and stalked into the showers.
You’d think my seniority would give me the perk of going in first, of ripping off this Band-Aid, but that’s not how Bryant works. He’s going to make me stand out here in the hallway and suffer.
The door opens and Craddock and Moriano, the freshmen, step out, both pale and quiet. I raise my eyebrows, hoping to get some kind of idea of how bad it’s going to be. Suspended? Kicked off?
“Rakestraw,” Coach Green says, “you’re up.”
“Yes, sir.”
The good news, I think, as I step in the room, is that the workout forced the toxins out of my system. I’m exhausted, but awake, the nausea not completely gone, but less of an imminent threat. Coach Green shuts the door behind me, and takes the only available seat, leaving me to stand in front of the desk. It’s impossible not to remember the long dormant memories of similarly standing in front of my father in his office, waiting for a similar ax to fall.
“As I’m sure isn’t a surprise, your urine test came back positive for cannabis,” Coach Bryant says, looking from the sheet with the test results to meet my eye. “The blood results won’t get here until next Monday.”
He’s right, it isn’t a surprise. I’d smoked up with the rowing guys before the party last night.
“I’m sorry, Coach. I fu–,” I swallow, “screwed up.”
“You sure the fuck did, Axel,” he says, apparently not worried about cursing. “You’re not one of these green freshmen like Craddock and Moriano coming in here learning the ropes and figuring out how to balance college life and D1 hockey. You’re a senior. An adult. And you know the expectations I have on players on this team and the rules you have to follow to stay on it.”
I know better than to respond. When Coach strings together more than six words, it’s best to let him get it out of his system.
“You know that when a team has a run as good as we are on, others are going to do anything to slow us down, including sending in reports to the committee that suggests there may be drug use on the team.” His jaw sets. “Catching a few starters in a sweep is a dream come true, which is why we have to be better, more diligent, than everyone else in all areas.”
“I know,” I say, when it seems like he’s taking a break. “I do, sir. I know.”
“Do you?” he asks, sighing and resting his forearms on the desk. “I won’t bullshit you, Axel. You’re our starting goalie. An integral part of the team and even with that, I’d be willing to toss your ass out on the street today and pull up one of those younger kids to take your place.”
I tilt my head. There’s a ‘but’ coming. Please let there be a but coming.
“But you lucked out. The NCAA has loosened its policy on cannabis use. You get a one time pass.” He looks a little disappointed. “Although there will be a probationary period and mandatory education.”
I’d heard something about this, but wasn’t sure how the policy shook out inside an organization. “Whatever is needed, I’ll do it. I don’t want to let you or the team down.”
“I hope you mean that, because with your seniority, you’re on the hook. Cutting the freshman would be easy, but you’re the example here. A leader on the team, if you like it or not. I need you to step up for them as much as the men out there looking to go all the way to the finals.”
I rankle at the term leader. That’s not something I’ve ever aspired to be. I’m not Reese, who was born to wear the captain badge. I’m just here to live my best life, play some kick-ass hockey, until I get called back home–back to my true calling.
Coach Bryant studies me for a moment. The man was an All-American back in his day. His instincts are top notch and he must sense something because he sets the report aside and says, “You’re a good player, son. You can have a career if you want it, you know that right?”
Ah, but that’s the question. What do I want? Fuck if I know. Fuck if it even matters. I can say what I don’t want, which is the life expected from me by my family. Taking over my father’s legacy. Becoming a leader in a whole different world, one I don’t even respect. I’ve been given a reprieve. Four years to escape life in Texas, time away from my family, and the obligation that comes with my last name. I’m here to have fun, to do all the things that won’t be allowed of me once I graduate. My father views it all as a rebellion: tattoos, women, hockey, excess. But it’s just me trying to live my life while I can, pretending like the future isn’t coming for me.
“The league is showing interest, but taking the path toward the draft is hard work. It requires absolute dedication and focus, and I don’t always get that drive from you.” Coach leans back in his seat, his thumb spinning the heavy gold ring on his finger. “Whether you realize it or not, your teammates look up to you. Those two knuckleheads that just walked out of here think you’re a fucking god. They rely on you, and in general, you pull through.”
In general, but not this time.
“Tell me something, Axel.” He levels me with one last hard look. “I’m not going to be surprised by anything on the blood test, am I?”
“No, sir. It was just a joint at a post game party. Nothing else.”
That, at the very least, I’m sure of.
“In three weeks, you’ll be retested, per NCAA rules. If you’re clean, we can put this behind us and move forward.” He frowns. “If not, well, the rules aren’t as lenient the second time.”
“Understood.”
He jerks his chin at the door. “Now get the hell out of here, you smell like a locked up boot bin.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coach Green opens the door for me and rests a hand on my shoulder. He leans in and says, “If you’re just partying, that’s one thing, but if this is something else, like you’re struggling with something, I’m here if you need me.”
“I’m not, but thanks,” I say, stepping into the hall and taking a deep breath. At twenty-two years old I still hate getting called to the mat by authority figures. Makes me feel like a little kid again. I do my best to avoid it, but I have no one else to blame for this one but myself.
It’s obvious from the lack of noise coming from the locker room that the rest of the team has already left. There’s no post practice music or loud trash talk. I’m relieved, definitely not in the mood to rehash what just went down. I feel like such a fuck up. Weed? I’m smarter than this.
I walk in and immediately realize that someone is waiting for me.
Reese.
He’s sitting on the bench, a skate between his thighs, adding a fresh pair of laces. My shoulders tighten at what I know is going to be my second lecture of the day. So, I decide to get ahead of it. “Probation,” I tell him, reaching my locker and opening the door. “I’ll probably have to go to a health seminar or watch some of those godforsaken videos the conference puts out. But I’m still on the ice.”
I hear a grunt, but nothing else, as he fusses with his skate.
I strip, yanking off my practice jersey and pants. I ball them up and toss them in the bin across the room. Resting my hands on my hips, I look at him. “Just say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever you obviously hung around after practice to tell me.”
“I’m not waiting to talk to you.” He looks up for the first time. “My fucking lace snapped during practice.”
“Good, because Bryant already did the job of informing me that I need to get my shit together and stop letting the team down.” I turn back to my locker and grab my bag. “I don’t need to hear it from you too.”
I just need to get out of here. Get some food in my belly and take a long nap. I’ve just pulled my sweats up to my hips when he says, “He’s right.”
Jesus Christ.
I slam my fist into the metal door. “I knew you couldn’t let it go.”
“Dude, I think I’ve earned the right to say something right now. Not just as your captain, but as your friend.”
I spin and spread my arms. “Go ahead then, take your best shot.”
He’s standing now, and Reese is a big mother fucker. At least three inches taller than I am. “It’s not a shot, Ax, it’s the goddamn truth. I’ve been watching you party harder and harder as the years go by. Every day we get closer to winning this thing, you amp it up another notch. You know I don’t have a problem blowing off steam. You can drink whatever you want, fuck whoever you want, go on a three day bender. I don’t give a shit.”
He takes a breath, and I sense him trying to maintain control.
“But what you’re doing now is looking a lot more like sabotage every day, which if it was just you, then I’d say go for it. But the problem is that it’s not just you. It’s the team. It’s me, Jefferson, and Reid. It’s those freshmen who are relying on us to leave them with a legacy. It’s Coach Bryant. We’ve all worked too fucking hard to get to this place, but without you in the net there’s no fucking way we can win this thing.” He swallows. “And to be honest, I don’t want to win it without you. We got here together. We’re going to finish this together.”
Well damn.
This is why Reese is the captain. It’s not just because he’s the best on the ice. He’s the best off too.
I thrust my hand in my hair and say, “I told coach I’ll do better, and I will. You have my word.”
“Thank you.” He reaches out, fingers curled. “It’ll be worth it. We can walk out of Wittmore with the trophy and all the opportunities it will afford us.”
I nod, linking my hand with his and clutching it tight. The tension between us smooths, although the tight ball in my chest doesn’t. Winning that trophy will change nothing about my future. It’ll just be another reminder of how much I have to give up.