Chapter 2
Chapter Two
NATHAN
I thought the woman in the truck next to me was having a seizure.
Or maybe a heart attack.
One minute, she was staring at me like a ghost through the windshield.
The next, she face planted.
I drive out of the grocery store parking lot and, right before merging into Main Street traffic, I glance at her truck in my rearview mirror.
From this distance, I can see the woman creeping out of her car and hurrying into the store with her chin tucked to her chest.
She seems unharmed. Heart-attack free.
That’s a relief.
“I hope I didn’t come off as a creep,” I mumble, rubbing my chin.
Did she notice that I jogged to the passenger side of my car to put up my grocery bags so I could peer into her window?
Nah, probably not.
She was too busy squeezing her hands to her chest and melting into the lap of the passenger seat.
I stood there for a good minute, assessing whether I should knock on her window and check if she was breathing.
In the end, I saw her chest move and figured her little make out session with her chair wasn’t any of my business.
As I drive to the stadium, I put the strange woman out of my mind and turn up my ‘Pump the Jam’ remix. The thudding bass gets louder as I push the stadium doors open and trot inside like a boxer before a headline match.
The smell of the rink fills my nostrils and my heart thuds in anticipation.
Oh, I’m ready for the fight.
But my opponent isn’t the other players on the ice, stretching in preparation for our training.
‘You’ll never walk again, Campbell. Even if you do, you won’t be able to play hockey.’
I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
‘If you push yourself too hard, you’ll break. Rest is part of rehab too, Campbell.’
The rapper in my ear freestyles about working to the max and breaking past your limits. I let the rhythm fill my body and swing my head from side to side.
I’m here.
Even if I shouldn’t be.
Even if the doctors weren’t exactly applauding my decision.
‘You’re technically healed now. But healed doesn’t mean ‘the same’. Your leg is half flesh and half metal. If you crack that bone again…’
It would be easier if I could stay away from hockey. But you might as well ask me to stop breathing first.
Risk is a part of the game.
Everybody knows that.
I just have a slightly bigger risk than others.
The music is suddenly ripped out of my ears and I reach out on instinct, ready to snatch my earbud back.
“Cool. What’s this?” Price, a fellow trainee, sticks one of my earbuds in. He juts his chin out, bobbing in an off-beat way to the song and I’m suddenly hit with the realization that I may have looked just as embarrassing earlier.
“Yo, yo. This is fire. What song is this?”
I snatch the earbud back. “Don’t know. It was in my playlist.”
Price pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “What’s the link to the playlist?”
“Not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not a public playlist.”
“Oooh.” A sly grin shimmies across his face and he wiggles his eyebrows. “Did your girlfriend make you a couple’s playlist?”
I scowl at him, refraining from thumping him on the back of the head for the gross insinuation. “It was a gift from my little sister.”
Technically, Riley Carter isn’t my little sister. At least not by blood. And I, actually, haven’t heard from or seen her in years. But time and distance won’t change the fact that she’s Chris’s little sister.
And since Chris is my sworn, spit-on-the-palms, no-take-backsies brother since middle school, Riley’s my sister by default.
I don’t make the rules.
The playfulness leaves Price’s smile and he shrugs, bored. Dropping the earbud back into my open palm, he pleads. “Coach said we’re splitting teams today. Can I be your first pick? I really need to score some points or I’ll be cut next week.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say to brush him off.
Price’s eyes light up. “Sweet.”
I watch Price scamper away while I turn my playlist back on. The poor guy will be cut next week whether or not he’s on my team. Price is always the first to leave practice and has the most complaints about the team manager, the coach, and the facilities.
I’m not sure why he wants to be here when he seems to badmouth everything so much.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s young and healthy.
He can just try again.
But for me…
My entire life is riding on this.
I head to the locker room with my grocery bag in one hand and my duffel in the other.
“You’re late,” a voice echoes. “Again.”
I pause the playlist, smiling at the large man in full Lucky Striker’s gear. He’s big enough to work as a bouncer in one of the famous clubs my teammates used to drag me to. Except, his terrifying image is shattered by the helmet with the giant Hello Kitty sticker on it.
Hard to take a guy seriously—even a guy Renthrow’s size—when he’s rocking an animated character on his forehead.
Although I’m not one to judge since I have an anime character permanently inked on my skin.
“I’m on the brink of being late. But I’m on time.”
“You always show up when everyone’s already on the ice.”
“How do you know that? Are you stalking me, Renthrow?” I grin.
Renthrow makes a disgusted sound and I am once again reminded of why I like to mess with him.
“What’s in the bag?” Renthrow asks.
I hide it behind my back and the plastic rustles. “Nothing.”
Renthrow’s eyes narrow in a way that I’ve seen him do with his six year old daughter. He turns his assessing gaze from the bag to me and I try my best not to squirm. He decides not to pry because he grunts with finality and stomps to the door.
“By the way,” I stop him, “do you know if the team manager needs help with anything? I could clean his office or file some paperwork or something?”
Renthrow’s eyebrows fly up.
“I feel like I could help around more. You know? Show that I’m more than just a good player.” I clear my throat and hope my expression isn’t as desperate as I feel.
“You should ask Max. Not me.”
My shoulders slump. What did you expect?
“Max doesn’t exactly talk to me,” I confess.
It’s been two weeks of training and while other players have gotten stern talking-tos or praise from the team leader, I haven’t been approached at all. It almost feels like I’m invisible. Like I’m just here to fill up space.
Not that I mind.
I’ve got my toe in the door at least, but I also can’t sit back and assume things will go my way. I have to try something.
At the door, Renthrow turns slightly to me. “Max will be at the town fair this Saturday, helping out a charity booth.”
My eyes brighten. “Noted.”
Renthrow walks out. “Get a move on, Campbell.”
“See you out there.”
After Renthrow’s footsteps fade, I stride into the showers and check the stalls to make sure no one’s inside. Then I return to the lockers, sink into a bench and extract a new package of pain relief patches.
Peeling back the plastic, I check over my shoulder to make sure I’m truly alone and then paste it over my leg.
The patch has a slight, burning sensation, but I’m used to it by now.
I stick on three of them, making sure to cover every inch of rough-textured skin along the Death Note tattoo.
When I’m done, I roll my sweat pants down to cover the patches, grab my hockey gear and join the others on the ice.
Twap!
Hockey sticks clack into hard, black pucks.
Ice sprays like fine diamonds into the air.
Trainees from all over the country buzz with energy, skidding from one corner of the ice to the other. Laughter rings out. Harmless ribbing. The kind of smack talk that would start a brawl if spoken anywhere outside of the rink.
This is home.
But then I see Max, the giant team manager, jotting something down on a clipboard, watching the other trainees with intense eyes.
Then his eyes skip to me.
I raise my hand in a friendly wave.
Max doesn’t wave back.
He doesn’t jot anything down.
And a dark, uneasy feeling tightens in my chest.
No, this isn’t home.
This is a gladiator ring.
Next week, someone—or many someones—are going home.
And I can’t afford to be one of them.