Chapter 18 Beckett
I'm taping my ribs in front of my locker when Silas walks in.
He glances at the compression wrap I'm winding around my torso and doesn't say anything. We both know where the bruise came from. We both know it's not going to heal in time, but I’m not going to complain.
The purple has spread from my ribs down to my hip, the boot print still visible if you look closely enough. Every time I twist or turn or take a deep breath, the pain flares hot and sharp.
I finish taping and pull my practice jersey over my head, wincing when my ribs protest the movement.
"You good?" Silas asks, not looking at me as he laces his skates.
"Fine."
The locker room fills gradually — guys stumbling in half-asleep, the smell of coffee mixing with sweat and hockey tape and steel. Someone's playing music low from a speaker.
Coach walks in, clipboard in hand, his expression already pissed off.
"Listen up," he barks, and the room goes quiet.
"UCLA embarrassed us at home Friday. We don't split at home.
We sure as hell don't lose the home opener.
" He slaps the clipboard against his palm.
"This week, we fix that. Friday at UCLA, and we're sweeping both games.
No excuses. No weak shifts. No fucking around. "
Someone mutters agreement. Coach's eyes sweep the room, landing on each of us in turn.
"We run contact drills today. Full intensity. If you can't handle it, sit out now."
Nobody moves.
"Good. Ice in five."
The cold hits my face the moment I step onto the rink, sharp and clean and familiar. I do a lap to warm up, testing my ribs with each stride. The pain is manageable, but barely.
Theo is already out here, skating like a machine — fast, aggressive, every movement precise and controlled. I’m not surprised by the stunts he’s pulled.
I push the thought away and focus on the drill Coach is setting up. Contact work — one-on-ones along the boards, full speed, full contact. The kind of drill that separates the guys who can take a hit from the guys who fold.
Theo lines up across from me for the first rep.
Coach blows the whistle, and we both drive toward the puck. I get there first, but Theo doesn't slow down. He comes in hard, shoulder driving into my side, slamming me against the boards with enough force that my ribs scream.
I absorb the hit, keeping my feet, fighting for the puck even as pain radiates through my entire right side.
Theo leans in close, his helmet touching mine, and whispers, "Stay sharp."
Not threatening. Just controlled. Matter-of-fact.
Then he's gone, skating away with the puck while I push off the boards and try to breathe through the pain. I wish I had reached his broken arm before he got to me.
Coach blows the whistle again. "Good hit, Rhodes. Beck, keep your feet moving."
I nod, skating back to the line.
Theo doesn't look at me.
But he knows exactly what he did.
Twenty minutes into practice, we're running three-on-two breakout drills. I'm positioned at the point, Silas and another forward cutting through the neutral zone, Theo trailing on the weak side.
The puck comes to me clean. I have the lane. Should take the shot.
But I hesitate.
Just a fraction of a second — thinking about my ribs, about whether the follow-through will make them scream, about whether I can generate enough power to make it count.
That fraction of a second is enough.
The defenseman reads my hesitation, steps up, and I'm forced to dump it along the boards instead of shooting.
"Beck!" Coach's voice cuts across the ice. "What the fuck was that? You had the shot!"
"Sorry, Coach."
"Sorry doesn't win games!"
I skate back into position, jaw tight.
Theo circles past me, close enough that I hear him say quietly, "Hesitation kills."
The next play develops fast. Same setup, different angle. This time, the puck goes to Theo on the wing. He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't think. Just shoots — top shelf, bar down, the sound of the puck hitting the net echoing through the empty rink.
Coach blows the whistle, nodding approval. "That's what I want to see. Rhodes knows how to finish."
Theo skates past me again, and this time he doesn't say anything.
The message is clear: Hesitation equals weakness. And Theo capitalizes on weakness.
Practice runs long. Two hours of skating drills, contact work, power play setups, penalty kill scenarios. By the time Coach finally blows the final whistle, my ribs feel like they're on fire, and I can taste blood in the back of my throat.
I've been hit before. Been checked harder than what Theo gave me today. But there's a difference between a hockey hit and a message.
Today was a message.
The assistant coach catches us before we head off the ice. "We play against UCLA again," he reminds us, like we could forget. "They're going to try to run you. Especially you, Rhodes. They want revenge for the tie."
Theo stops, turning back. "Let them."
The words are casual, but there's something hungry underneath them.
I recognize it. Theo doesn't just want to win this weekend. He wants to dominate. Wants to prove something.
This isn't about hockey.
This is ego.
The locker room after practice is half-empty; most guys have already showered and gone. I'm sitting on the bench with an ice pack pressed against my ribs, my compression wrap on the floor beside me, when Theo approaches.
He's dressed already — jeans, hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder. Showered and ready to leave while I'm still trying to figure out if I cracked another rib.
"You're slow," he says, not sitting down, just standing over me.
I look up at him. "Bruised."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
Theo steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Don't."
That's it. One word. No elaboration. No threat.
Just command.
He walks away, and I'm left sitting there with the ice pack slowly warming against my skin, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.
Except I know what happened.
Theo's reminding me where I stand.
I make it to my truck by nine, tossing my gear bag in the back and climbing into the driver's seat with a grimace. My ribs hurt with every movement — getting in, settling back, reaching for the seatbelt.
My phone buzzes before I can start the engine.
Adela: Are you free later?
I stare at the text longer than I should.
Simple. Controlled. Not emotional. Not needy. Just a question.
The old Adela — the one from just yesterday — would have called. She would’ve been crying, panicking, or falling apart. She would have needed me to save her.
This Adela is different.
I should say no. Should make an excuse. Should put distance between us before Theo notices the way I'm starting to think about her when I shouldn't be.
Instead, I type: Yeah.
The reply comes immediately: My place at 7?
I'll be there.
I set the phone down and start the truck, pulling out of the parking lot before I can change my mind.
My phone buzzes again before I've made it two blocks.
Theo: She's accelerating. Redirect.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my ribs protesting the tension.
Got it.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Friday matters.
I know it does. Friday is the UCLA game. The one where we prove we're not the team that split at home. The one where Theo gets to show everyone — Coach, the team, UCLA, himself — that he's the best player on the ice.
And I need to be ready. Need to be fast and sharp and not hesitating.
Need to stop thinking about the girl who's currently dismantling her entire world to find answers I already have.
Adela's apartment looks different when I arrive at seven.
Not physically — it's still the same bare dorm room. But the energy is different.
She's sitting at her desk when she lets me in, laptop open, a yellow legal pad covered in handwriting beside it. A timeline is sketched out across the top of the page, dates and events connected by arrows.
This mirrors something. The setup. The focus. The clinical approach to chaos.
It reminds me of Theo's desk.
"Hey," she says, gesturing for me to sit on the bed. "Thanks for coming."
I lower myself carefully onto the edge of her mattress, trying not to let my ribs show how much the movement hurts. "What's going on?"
She turns in her desk chair to face me, and I notice the dark circles under her eyes. She is exhausted, maybe not eating or drinking water. But she's not crying or falling apart. She's busy.
"I need you to walk me through everything you know about Cody's dad," she says without preamble.
Not can you help me. Not I'm scared. Just a direct request for information.
I lean back slightly. "Why would I know anything about his dad?”
She picks up a pen, ready to take notes. "Whoever moved Cody had leverage. I need to understand who has that kind of reach."
She looks at me when she says leverage, her eyes sharp and assessing.
Not accusing. Testing.
I hold her gaze, keeping my expression neutral. "I’m sorry, Adela. I don’t know a single thing about his dad or even his home life.”
“You’ve never seen his dad at a game?”
I shake my head. “The season just started. And even if I did, families are constantly in and out. It doesn’t mean I would meet his dad.”
She glares at me. “Judge Ravenshaw has a lot of connections. Political ones. Legal ones. He's been on the bench for fifteen years — that's a lot of favors traded."
I think carefully about what she’s saying. “Okay.”
"My dad’s the mayor," she says, staring at her paper.
I glance down for a second.
Is she considering her own father as a suspect?
Then she looks at me. "If this is bigger than Cody, I want to know now."
The words land heavily in the quiet room. Now, she’s suspecting me.
I should deflect. I should reassure her that it's just Cody’s family moving him for better healthcare.
But she's not asking for that, is she?
She's escalating.
"What do you mean 'bigger'?" I ask carefully.
"I mean, whoever did this to him might not be finished." She sets down her pen. "And if they're willing to move him to keep me from asking questions, they might be willing to do worse."
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Perfect fucking timing.
"I need to take this," I say, pulling it out and seeing Theo's name on the screen.
I step into the hallway, closing her door behind me.
"Yeah?"
"Friday matters." Theo's voice is calm. Controlled. "Don't let this distract you."
Translation: Don't let her distract you.
"The game won’t be a problem," I say quietly, glancing at Adela's closed door.
"Make sure there are no problems, Beck."
The line goes dead.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear even though he's gone, trying to compartmentalize what I'm supposed to be doing here.
When I walk back in, Adela is watching me.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
"Yeah. Just team stuff."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she doesn't push. Instead, she stands and walks over to where I'm standing, sitting down on the bed beside me.
Closer than before.
Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"I know this is a lot to ask," she says quietly. "You barely know me. You got hurt trying to protect me. And now I'm dragging you into whatever mess Cody left behind. I’m slowly losing my mind."
She touches my arm — just a light touch, her fingers resting on my forearm for a moment before pulling away.
I can't tell if it's intentional or unconscious. Can't tell if she's testing boundaries or just seeking comfort.
Either way, it destabilizes me.
"You're not dragging me anywhere," I say, and it's not entirely a lie. "I want to help."
That part might actually be true.
She smiles slightly — small and tired but real. "Thank you for being here."
We sit there for a while longer, her showing me her timeline, asking questions about Cody's habits with hockey and the team. I answer carefully, not giving her enough information to go anywhere with it. I steer her away from anything that might lead back to Theo.
Or to me.
I leave around nine, my ribs aching and my head full of contradictions.
I sit in my truck in the parking lot, engine running, ice pack from her freezer pressed against my side.
Two texts come through almost simultaneously.
Adela: Thank you for helping.
Theo: Remember what's at stake.
I look at both messages, the contrast stark and unavoidable.
Friday looms with the UCLA game. Theo is expecting dominance. Coach is expecting redemption. The team expects me to be sharp, fast, and not hesitant.
And Adela, in her bare apartment with her legal pad and her timeline, getting closer to answers she shouldn't find.
I don't delete either message.
I sit there in the dark, watching her window, trying to figure out which direction I'm supposed to be moving.
If she keeps digging, Theo will escalate.
And next time, he won't aim at just me.