Chapter 23 - Karter
My lungs burned as my skates bit into the chopped ice for the final ten seconds of the third period. The scoreboard showed us up by one as a deafening roar pressed against the glass from the student section.
The final horn cut through the noise, and just like that, we’d locked in a spot at the Cold Quartet—the four-team tournament that decided who walked away with the biggest trophy in college hockey.
Gloves and sticks rained down onto the ice.
Guys swarmed the crease and buried our goalie under a pile of bodies.
This was supposed to be the high point of the whole season, but I just felt numb.
Before I could carve a clean path toward the tunnel, somebody snagged my jersey and yanked me into the team photo huddle. I stared straight into the lens while the celebration churned around me like static.
Escaping down the tunnel a minute later, I was met by the suffocating wall of heat inside the cramped locker room.
My teammates shoved past me, shouting and slamming their hands against the metal doors.
However, keeping my head down, stripping off my sweat-soaked pads and getting back to my room was my only goal.
But two steps away from my stall, I came to a stop.
A single pink figure skate sat perfectly centered on the wooden bench, its bright synthetic leather practically glowing under the lighting overhead.
Somebody had gone out and bought the prop, snuck it past the coaches, and set it up so the whole room would watch me find it.
The joke was impossible to miss. Heat prickled the back of my neck as I fought the sudden urge to grab a hockey stick and smash the cheap boot against the concrete floor.
I forced my hands to unclench. Giving whoever did this a reaction was exactly what they wanted, so I gave them nothing.
Instead, I grabbed the toe of the skate and tossed it into the nearest trash can.
It hit the plastic bottom with a hollow smack as I heard faint chuckling coming from somewhere behind me.
Sitting down, I stared at my boots and focused on the frayed edges of my laces, unthreading them with slow, deliberate pulls. Guys kept shouting and laughing from across the room, but I just pulled the strings tight. The rough friction was the only thing keeping my hands from shaking.
“Nice new gear, Karter.” My teammate, Dominic, projected his voice at me over the noise. He sat sprawled across two premium stalls, leaving his custom skates blocking the aisle while a freshman hurried out of his way.
My mouth stayed shut while I kept my focus on pulling off my skates.
A few minutes later, I decided to skip the shower, throwing my street clothes and winter jacket over my sweaty skin just to get out of there faster. Dragging stiff denim and a winter jacket over a layer of drying sweat felt gross, but escaping this locker-room mattered more than getting clean.
I grabbed a towel and ducked into the communal bathroom, heading for the sinks. Cold water hissed into the basin. Bracing both hands on the porcelain, I splashed my face and let the grit rinse off my skin.
Steam had fogged the entire mirror. Someone had dragged a bare finger through it, scrawling two words right at eye level. A sharp NO, followed by a short, homophobic slur. Dirty condensation gathered at the base of the leading F and dripped slowly down the mirror.
Two guys walked up to the adjacent sinks, bumping shoulders and laughing about a missed pass. They glanced at the defaced mirror, then looked away. Neither of them reached out to wipe the glass clean. They simply turned on the faucets and let the slur hang there.
Behind me, the bathroom door swung open and hit the tiled wall with a smack.
Dominic sauntered in and tossed a crumpled roll of tape toward the corner bin.
He missed. The tape bounced off the tile and rolled under the sink, and he didn’t bother picking it up.
Leaning his bulk over the basin next to mine, he caught the writing on the fogged glass and barked out a laugh.
“Ther’re not wrong.” He tapped a taped finger against the slur. “Someone give that guy the game puck.”
Nicholas slipped in behind him, already tilting his head to check his hair in the mirror like he was posing for a postgame headshot.
As a legacy winger who seemed to spend more time fixing his hair for the post-game cameras than actually taking a hit, he bumped his hip against the counter and flicked his gaze to Dominic.
“Honestly, can you blame them? We clinched the Quartet, and we don’t have to drag that Ice House freak to the tournament.
Plus, three kegs waiting at the frat. Best week ever.
” He caught my reflection for half a beat, then shrugged.
“Ah, no offense, Karter. Everyone knows you’re just living in that dump to piss off your dad. ”
Dominic snorted and splashed water over his thick neck, leaving wet streaks down his collar. “Man, I’m just saying. Nice to drop the soap without worrying what I’m gonna catch.”
“Right?” Nicholas grabbed a paper towel and talked across the sinks, eyes skipping right past me. “Explains why Zotov was always lurking by the showers.”
I bit into my bottom lip until copper flooded my tongue. Staring at the drain, I wrung my damp towel into a knot against the porcelain. They kept lobbing the jokes back and forth over my shoulders, fully expecting me to stand there and swallow it.
I rolled my neck. Keep quiet. Just let it go.
The bathroom door groaned open again. This time, a loud blast of bass-heavy music and cheering from the locker room spilled over the wet tiles before the door swung shut.
Elliot stepped inside. He had a fresh championship cap pulled over his damp hair and a sports drink in his grip, still grinning from the post-game hype. He caught my eye, looking fully prepared to drag me back out to the party.
Then he spotted the fogged glass.
His smile completely vanished. He tossed the plastic bottle into the trash bin, then bypassed my sink, closing the distance in three long strides.
He did not yell. He did not give a standard team speech. He simply walked right up to Dominic and kept moving forward, forcing the heavier defenseman to retreat until his back hit the wet bathroom counter.
“Our team has just punched its ticket to the Quartet tonight, Dom,” Elliot said.
He kept his voice dead flat, stripping the celebration right out of the humid air.
“There is a massive trophy waiting for us on the ice. So explain to me why you two are hiding in the bathroom, obsessing over a guy who does not even play for this school anymore.”
Dominic shifted his weight and stared down at the wet grout between the floor tiles before gesturing at the mirror. “Relax, El. It’s just a joke.”
Reaching out, Elliot clapped a hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “I love a good joke. Walk me through the punchline.”
“I didn’t write that trash,” Dominic muttered. He tried and failed to shrug off the grip. “I only read it.”
Nicholas pushed off the counter. He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly trying to salvage some of their lost pride. “Come on, bro. We are just calling it what it is. Everyone knows the real reason Hastings pulled Aleksey’s scholarship.”
Elliot dropped his hand from Dominic’s shoulder. He turned slowly, shifting his focus onto the winger. “Why did they pull it, Nick? Educate me.”
Nicholas lifted his chin. He tried to maintain his smug expression, though he darted a nervous glance towards me and then the exit. “Because Zotov is a fa...”
“Say the word,” Elliot interrupted. He stepped away from Dominic and crowded Nicholas, using his broader frame to box the smaller guy against the fogged mirrors.
“Drop that exact word to my face on the best night of our season. Try it. Because you will have to answer to me during every contact drill for the rest of the year, and I will gladly walk into Corby’s office right now and volunteer the entire roster to bag skate drills until you are puking over the boards. ”
Nicholas shut his mouth and pressed himself against the tile, just as a slow, mocking clap broke the tension. I turned to find Trenton leaning against the door. He wore his championship cap backward and held his phone loosely in one hand.
“You’re taking this awfully personal, Captain,” Trenton drawled. He stepped into the room and flashed a brilliant, camera-ready smile. “Come on, we’ve just won the division title. Why not let the boys blow off a bit of steam?”
Elliot squared his shoulders. He stepped away from Nicholas and closed the distance to the doorway. “Did you do that?” Elliot jutted his chin in the direction of the mirror. Not waiting for an answer, I finally moved, pressing my damp towel to the glass and swiping the ugly word away.
“I did not write a single thing on that mirror,” Trenton replied.
He shifted his gaze past Elliot, locking his pale green eyes on me.
A cruel smirk tilted his mouth. “Hey, you’re looking a little stressed there, kid.
Rough week? Must be hard losing your favorite stray dog right before the playoffs. ”
The damp towel in my hands hit the floor tiles with a wet slap. I pushed off the sink and closed the distance before Elliot could block my path. Nicholas and Dominic were just spouting locker-room gossip, but Trenton was my actual problem.
“Aleksey earned his spot,” I fired back, stepping right up to force him to look down at me. “You just went crying to the admin because you could not beat him on the ice, and everybody knows it.”
The smug confidence wiped clean off Trenton’s face, followed by him driving a hand into my chest. Letting my anger take over, I grabbed a fistful of his jersey and drew my arm back to swing.
Elliot hooked an arm across my collarbone and hauled me backward, preventing me from landing the punch. Breaking up the other side of the fight, Dominic wedged his bulk into the gap and shoved Trenton back.
“Quit it!” Elliot barked, moving to plant himself between us.