Chapter 24 #2
I push off, blade biting in, lungs burning.
Keith’s words keep replaying in the back of my head—watch your back—but out here there’s no room for paranoia.
There’s only movement. I skate the pattern Coach yells, over and over: shuttle sprints, tight turns, two-on-ones, breakaways.
Every drill is a metronome I set faster and faster until my legs are a blur.
“Crash the net!” someone, I think Tommy, yells, and I drive the slot like a battering ram, shoulder into shoulder with the defense.
The puck snaps across to me and I don’t think.
I shoot. The puck slams off the crossbar and drops in.
Net rattles. For a second there’s nothing but the pure, carved joy of it.
The crowd of players whoop, and a few of the guys holler more because it hit the bar than because I scored. Doesn’t matter. It lands.
Coach watches, eyes narrowed. He can tell when a player is different. He walks the length of the ice, never taking his gaze off me for long.
“Keep that aggression,” he shouts between drills. “Focus it. Don’t let it own you.”
I hear him and turn it inward. Focus it. Don’t let it own you.
I skate harder, burying the chaos under muscle memory. The slap of stick on puck, the squeal of skate on ice, the bark of a teammate’s laugh—these are the only absolutes I’ll accept.
Keith’s in my ear sometimes—small adjustments, a nod when I tilt my shoulder right, a quick tap on the shin when I drift. He sees the way I throw my body into contact like I’m trying to punch a hole through whatever’s biting at my throat.
“Good,” he says after one drill, chin up, respect there even under the surface worry. “Channel it.”
We run the board-drill three times, each circuit tighter, more violent.
Jack’s shadow is always present in the peripheral, laughing with the other forwards, shrugging like he’s bored.
He skates well enough. He’s got speed. But there’s a jolt every time I cut past him, like every muscle in me remembers his words and answers with extra force.
Coach calls for a scrimmage. The bench swaps, and I’m on a line with two kids who are all energy and no fear.
My stick moves before my head does. I bait a defender, fake left, open to the seam, and roll through.
The puck finds my tape, and I go barreling into the slot.
Some part of me—something older and uglier—thinks of Jack’s grin and the half-line he threw at me, and my shoulder explodes into the defenseman.
I hear the grunt that means contact landed.
Pain—sweet, satisfying pain. The kind that says you did damage and took it too.
The scrimmage is blur and impact. A pass threaded through gets me a breakaway. I wind up and rip the puck home, blade whispering across the ice as I decelerate. Coach slams a fist into his palm, a rare smile cracking his stern mask.
“That’s the Gray I know!” he yells. It’s approval and order and it tastes like something I can hang on to.
Between shifts I breathe and let the burn flood me like gasoline. My hands tremble a little as I grab a water bottle. Sweat stings my eyes. West claps me on the back. “You’re locked in, man. Whatever’s got you, use it.”
And use it, I do. Everything after Coach’s whistle is purpose.
The drills become smaller, sharper, cleaner.
I don’t skate to escape Jack’s voice, I skate to beat it.
To make sure the only story anyone remembers from the game is what I did on the ice, not what some jealous idiot muttered in the locker room.
“You alright?” Coach asks. Simple. No pity. He’s not asking if I’m hurt, he’s asking if my head is in the game.
“Yeah,” I say, but my voice is raw. I don’t tell him about the blade. I don’t tell him about Jack’s taunting, not because I don’t trust him, but because I don’t want to hand Jack the satisfaction of seeing me frayed. “I’m fine. Just want this one. Want it bad.”
He studies me like he’s weighing me up, then gives a curt nod. “Good. Keep that. Use it smart. We need you focused the whole forty—no flash, no noise. Be the rock.”
I nod, and something in me steadies. I plan to keep going until my legs no longer question the motion, until my reflexes are louder than doubt. Until I can turn whatever Jack aims at me into fuel and not fuel into fire.
When we skate off, my limbs ache the right way. My chest is full from exertion and something else—something sharp and disciplined. Jack’s bluffing games haven’t won anything yet. Not today.
Back in the locker room, when I’m stripping gear and peeling off the sweat-sticky jersey, Keith’s voice drops again. “I’ll keep watching him,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You keep doing what you do.”
I look at myself in the bench mirror, face flushed, eyes bright with the focused kind of hunger. Whatever comes, I’ll be ready.
I step into the house, rolling my shoulders to ease out the stiffness. My body’s still humming with the rush of the near-miss with my skates, Keith’s warning echoing in my head.
The smell of something savory hits me before I even make it to the living room, and when I peek into the kitchen, I stop dead.
Brie’s there, swaying to the music blasting from the speaker. An oversized shirt drapes lazily over her frame, paired with shorts that are criminally short. Her hair is messy from a long day, her bare legs catching the light as she dances, and I swear my brain just short-circuits.
I don’t even think. Instinct takes over.
I stalk toward her, my footsteps quiet over the tile. When I reach her, I slip my hands around her waist and pull her against me, my lips brushing the side of her neck as I breathe her in.
She startles, stiffens—
“Cameron—” she starts, half-turning, but then she sees my face. I feel her body loosen just a fraction against mine, but then she pushes me away with both hands.
The rejection stings sharper than I expect. I mask it with a crooked smile, forcing lightness into my voice.
“What? Are you disgusted by me already?”
She rolls her eyes, but her tone is clipped. “You’re sweaty. Locker room showers don’t count.”
I chuckle like it’s nothing, but inside, something knots tight in my chest. The energy’s off—she’s distant in a way that wasn’t there before. But I don’t press.
“Fine,” I mutter, lifting my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll freshen up before I traumatize you with my stench.”
I head down the hall, the hot water pounding over me doing little to drown out the unease. By the time I come back out, she’s plating food, moving around the kitchen like nothing happened.
She’s sitting across from me at the island, twirling her fork absentmindedly as we eat in comfortable silence. I take a bite, glance up, and catch the way the loose neckline of her shirt slides when she leans forward. My stomach flips, but not from the food.
I clear my throat, setting my fork down. “Why are you sitting all the way over there?”
Brie’s head tilts, brow lifting. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”
“Not close enough.” I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “I’d have preferred you on my lap. Or somewhere else.”
Her fork clatters against the plate, and heat rushes into her cheeks. “Cameron, don’t say things like that at the table.”
“Fine,” I murmur, pushing my chair back. “I won’t say them.” I stand, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. “I’ll just do them.”
Her breath hitches as I stop in front of her, my hand sliding around the back of her chair before I bend down and capture her mouth with mine. She doesn’t hesitate. Her lips part instantly, her arms wrapping around my neck as though she’s been waiting for this.
The kiss is hungry, unrestrained, and it surprises me how natural it feels. I’m not the type to be affectionate, not the type to crave this kind of closeness. Yet with her, it’s effortless, addictive even.
We pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads brushing. She whispers, voice trembling with heat, “I’m not hungry anymore.”
A low laugh escapes me. “Me neither.”
Her lips crash back into mine, no more hesitation, no more distance.
The plates are forgotten as I haul her onto the counter.
Her legs lock tighter around my waist as I press her back against the cool countertop, the contrast making her shiver.
My hands slide under that oversized shirt, finding warm skin, soft and begging to be touched.
She gasps into my mouth when I grip her hips and grind against her, the sound shooting straight through me.
Plates rattle somewhere to the side, forgotten, but I don’t care.
All I care about is the way she clings to me, the way her short shorts ride higher with every shift of my body, until there’s nothing left between us but raw need.
When I finally sink into her, her head falls back, a sharp cry breaking free, and I know I’m not stopping, not until she’s writhing against me, not until we both come undone right here in the kitchen
By the time it’s over, we’re sprawled across the cool surface of the island, her hair messy, my chest heaving. I stare up at the ceiling, every nerve in my body still thrumming.
Fuck. I’m in trouble.
Because this doesn’t feel casual anymore and that scares me.