Chapter 3 - Karter
My sleeve slid down a second too late. Elliot had already locked his eyes on the dark bruises wrapped around my wrist.
“Where’d you get that from?” Elliot asked, setting his fork down on the table.
The memory of Aleksey gripping my wrist in the weight room flashed in my mind, sending a sudden, restless buzz straight into my fingertips. Pushing the sensation down before I could examine it, I kept my face blank.
“Gym wraps,” I said. My fork scraped against the plate, pushing a lukewarm noodle around. “I tied them too tight yesterday.”
Elliot didn’t buy it. He ran a hand through his hair, though the messy style still stayed perfectly in place. He stared at me, giving me a long look.
“How are things at the Ice House?” he asked.
The dining hall was loud. Hundreds of overlapping conversations bounced off the high walls, mixed with the harsh clatter of plastic trays. Normally, the noise faded into the background, but today I focused on it to stay grounded.
“Fine,” I replied.
“Only fine?” he pressed. “No incidents? Some of those guys take things too far.”
A tight knot formed in my stomach. The freezing water of yesterday’s shower rushed through my memory, along with Aleksey’s dark eyes staring right at me.
“I said it’s fine,” I told him, keeping my tone even. “No hazing. Someone did mess up my side of the room the other day. Left Matt’s stuff alone. It was just a stupid prank.”
Elliot frowned. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. “Coach clamped down hard on hazing after an incident last year. A few guys got out of hand.”
“What happened?”
“A couple of the scholarship players took a joke too far with a freshman,” Elliot said. “Coach benched them for three games. Sent a clear message.”
“And the freshman?”
“Transferred out. Couldn’t hack it, anyway.” He waved a hand in the air. “Doesn’t matter. Save your energy for the ice.”
“I have plenty of energy.”
“Don’t waste your time thinking about all that scholarship kid crap.” Elliot grabbed his water glass. “If you start reaching out to pull the drowning guys up, the next thing you know, you’re both at the bottom of the lake.”
My hand drifted to the back of my neck, fingers digging into the tight muscles there.
“Don’t let them take you under, Karter,” he added.
“I’m not drowning, Elliot.”
“I didn’t say you were. I’m only telling you to keep your head up. Those guys don’t play by the same rules because they don’t have anything to lose. You do.”
Nodding agreeably was my usual habit. Going along with him was the easiest way to keep the peace. But as I looked at Elliot, his easy confidence taking up all the space at the table, my back teeth ground together.
He meant well. He always played the wise, protective older brother. Except today, letting him run interference for me just made me feel useless. The sudden urge to stop being an obligation he had to protect flared up. I didn’t want to be kept safe in a bubble someone else had built.
My chair scraped back. Standing up, I grabbed my plastic tray. “I need to get to practice.”
“We have an hour before we need to be at the rink,” Elliot pointed out.
“Yeah, but my muscles are tight. Stretching early will help.”
We walked toward the dining hall exit. Pushing my tray onto the metal conveyor belt, the hard smack of the plastic matched the new, stubborn need twisting in my gut. Proving I could handle myself out on the ice today was the only thing I cared about.
The walk across campus to the athletic facility passed in a blur of nervous energy.
In the locker room, my hands yanked my skate laces tighter than usual.
And keeping my head down and headphones on blocked out the pre-practice noise.
Stepping out of the tunnel, the blast of freezing air from the rink hit my face, snapping me into focus.
Gliding onto the ice of the Ridge Cross hockey rink for the afternoon session, my gloves gripped my stick tight.
Playing the fragile legacy kid was officially over.
Coach Corby stood by the bench. “Line drills! Let’s go! Move your feet!” he shouted.
Coasting over to Elliot’s group, Trenton Wright slapped his stick against my shin pads.
“Pacing yourself, Karter?” Trenton asked with an easy smirk. “Good call. Let the walk-ons tire themselves out.”
Next, we lined up for transition drills. Coach Corby paced the center ice circle, blowing his whistle and barking at anyone who lost their footing. He blew the play dead just to scream at a sophomore walk-on for a sloppy backhand, immediately sending the kid to the boards for a set of penalty laps.
Two reps later, my turn came. I pushed off too hard, caught an edge on the rutted ice, and completely butchered the pivot. My stick fumbled the puck, sending it sliding harmlessly into the corner.
I gritted my teeth and stopped, bracing for Corby to light me up. I wanted him to yell. I wanted to skate the penalty laps. And I knew I needed the correction so I could actually improve.
Instead, Corby just tapped his clipboard. “The ice is getting chopped up out there, Karter,” Coach called out, giving me a mild, polite nod. “Just reset your footing for the next round. Go get back in line.”
Trenton snickered behind me. Elliot skated by and tapped my lower back with his glove, telling me not to sweat it.
My grip on my hockey stick tightened until my hands hurt.
That polite nod was exactly what I hated.
It was the kind of coddling that made my dad force me into that miserable PG year to begin with—he was so convinced I would be a failure on the ice that he made me wait an extra year just to put on this jersey.
If my last name were anything else, Coach Corby wouldn’t be giving me a polite nod. I would be skating suicides until my lungs burned, just like any other player.
Ignoring Trenton, my gaze drifted across the rink. Aleksey and his crew ran their drills with pure aggression. They hit hard and didn’t apologize. Every muscle in my body felt on edge watching them, while my eyes tracked where Aleksey was at all times.
So far, the other scholarship guys had given me a wide berth. During a puck-handling drill, Angel Perez skated in my direction. He had the perfect angle for a body check. But instead of making contact, Perez pulled up and swerved at the last second.
“Watch your left,” Perez muttered as he passed by.
My skates dug into the ice, stopping me short. “Don’t go easy on me.”
Perez shrugged, bouncing lightly on his skates. “Hey, I mean... captain’s orders, man. Nobody breaks the little brother. And Coach isn’t exactly gonna argue with the Johnston checkbook.”
The special treatment drove me crazy. But it seemed Aleksey didn’t get the mandate... or he simply ignored it.
We both ended up in the corner chasing a loose puck. Reaching for it left me exposed. Aleksey drove his shoulder right into my back. The force threw me into the acrylic glass, and the impact rattled my teeth. My ribs ached.
But underneath the sting, a sharp, burning frustration flared up. The adrenaline rush felt incredibly good. Aleksey wasn’t treating me like a fragile kid.
Coach Corby blew his whistle. “Scrimmage! Blue versus White!”
Once again, the metal blades of our skates dug deep into the fresh ice. Catching a pass from a winger, a quick fake shook the defenseman, allowing a blind backhand pass right to Elliot’s stick. He fired it into the net.
“Great vision, Karter!” Coach yelled from the boards. “That’s how we move the puck!”
Elliot skated by and tapped my helmet. “Nice setup.”
Turning to skate back to center ice, Aleksey came out of nowhere.
He hit me square in the back. My body collided with the boards.
The impact pushed all the air out of my lungs.
Dropping to the ice, my weight slid forward on my stomach as my teeth clamped down on the inside of my cheek.
Blood pooled on my tongue as I gasped for air, the arena spinning out of focus.
Aleksey hovered over me, holding his hand out as if he were going to help me up.
Through the ringing in my ears, I reached up to take it, expecting a standard post-hit assist. But he didn’t grab my palm.
Instead, his hand darted past mine, his thick fingers locking like a vise around my bruised wrist.
The hollow clatter of his stick hitting the ice was my only warning.
He wrenched my wrist inward, and his newly freed hand locked onto the front collar of my jersey, bunching the fabric into his fist. He hauled me to my feet in one violent motion, jerking me forward until our chests pressed together.
My eyes tracked the thick white scar running along his jawline while he glared at me from beneath his black helmet.
His hand slid down to the gap between my jersey and hockey pants, fingers digging into my waist to haul me flush against him.
The intense physical contact threw my equilibrium way off balance.
“Keep your head up, legacy,” Aleksey whispered. “This isn’t a game.”
His hand slid down my side. And he held me pinned there for two extra seconds, making sure I knew who had the upper hand.
My breathing hitched. Pushing both hands against his shoulders, my body ripped out of his grip. Standing tall on my skates, backing away wasn’t an option.
“Back the fuck off, asshole,” I told him.
“Hey!” Elliot shouted, skating over fast. Trenton and the rest of his line rushed in right behind him.
Aleksey pushed me back slightly and skated backward to meet them. His scholarship crew swarmed in at the exact same time. Perez and the others flanked Aleksey, raising their sticks.
“Back the hell off,” Elliot yelled, checking Aleksey’s shoulder.
Aleksey hit back harder. “Teach the kid how to skate, then.”
Coach Corby blew his whistle three times in a row. “Knock it off!” he shouted. He and the assistant coach opened the bench door and stepped onto the ice. “Break it up right now! Get back to your sides!”
The guys separated, muttering curses at each other. Trenton bumped shoulders with Perez as they backed away.