Chapter Twenty-One Alex
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALEX
The crowd is going crazy.
Tonight isn’t just for us—it’s for them. This game has been the most anticipated game of the season. The tension runs deep with Baymont. For years they’ve been our rival, and every year we’ve whooped their asses.
Of course, then we had Jackson. And now that he’s out, everyone is damn near betting against us. It’s bullshit. Every player on this team is the reason we’re at the top of our sport, one of the best in the country. Not just Kincaid.
I know that. We know that.
But the lack of faith seeps deep, so deep that the team has been on edge for weeks.
Tonight’s not just about getting to nationals.
It’s about proving that I’m a damn good captain and can lead a badass team, with or without Jackson.
It’s about finally getting my father to see me.
Not the player, not a commodity—but his son.
“Let’s go, Knights,” someone shouts from the stands, and the cheering commences. As the seconds tick on, more fans join in until they’re so loud I can barely register the words.
Across the rink, the opposing team’s faces twist into smirks and sneers.
They don’t look rattled. If anything, they look amused.
Like we’re just background noise in their highlight reel.
My sights land on Aaron. He slaps the backs of his hands against his teammate’s shoulders, jutting his chin in our direction and saying something that makes him laugh.
My jaw ticks, the pressure building until my teeth ache. Aaron Walton has been—no, is—the biggest bane of my existence. Ever since we were kids, he and Jackson have found numerous ways to get us all in trouble.
Once upon a time, he was a Knight. Until he fucked that up and nearly ruined our entire track two seasons ago. He’s smug. Reckless. And an asshole with a superiority complex. Acted like he was bigger than the program. Like rules didn’t apply to him. Like he belonged on a pedestal.
I know I’m bad, but he was worse. Much worse.
And with a penchant for dirty plays, Coach had no choice but to bench him.
Hits from behind. Cheap shots. Late checks.
Shit that could’ve ended careers. Aaron didn’t take the benching quietly, and neither did his father.
The Walton name carries weight in this town, and they made sure to use it.
They took to social media with a full-blown smear campaign against the school. Accusations. Edited footage.
“Blackballed for being too aggressive,” they’d claimed.
It almost worked. Almost.
It cost my father and the school thousands to clean it up before it could morph into a scandal. But even after we buried it, the stain stuck. His name was ruined. No team would touch him. He was a loose cannon, and a liability.
Except Baymont. They were desperate and needed a captain. Rumor is, Daddy Walton cut them a fat check to make it happen. Coach says not to engage. Says to focus on the fact that we know Aaron’s every move. His tricks. His tells. His weaknesses. Says to play the game but leave it on the ice.
But then this dick winks at me from across the rink, taunting me. And then he flirted with her.
Sam isn’t just wearing a jersey tonight. She’s wearing mine. I picked it. Handed it to her without saying why. Could’ve grabbed any number, but I didn’t. I wanted her in my name. Wanted it loud, visible, and branded on her back like a warning.
He saw that.
And he still had the balls to make a move on her in my rink, in my house. It was for me, the flirting and cocky glances, the dirty way he let his eyes drag over her.
He doesn’t want her.
He wants me rattled.
And it’s working. Why is it fucking working? I shouldn’t care, but I do. More than I want to admit. This jersey was just a way to claim her, show the other team who she belongs to. Nothing more. Yet seeing Aaron talking to her lit something ablaze inside me. A fire I can’t fucking put out.
I was supposed to meet up with Kenzie last night, something easy with no strings.
A sure thing to take the edge off. But she quickly became an afterthought when I walked in and saw Sam.
Half-dressed, her perfect tits just there for me to devour.
Then my fingers were inside her, her moans stuck under my skin, her scent clinging to me.
I can still feel the heat of her thighs tightening around my wrist. Still hear the way she gasped like it wasn’t supposed to happen, but she needed it anyway.
And now I can’t fucking shake it. And this asshole just threw gasoline on the entire goddamn thing. He saw my name and knew that circling her like a damn vulture would get under my skin.
So sorry, Coach. Going up against him tonight is going to be bittersweet. And when I make him my bitch on that ice, it’s probably going to be better than sex.
I shift on the bench, unfisting my gloved hands and unlocking my elbows. Kane is next to me, rolling his shoulders as if he’s already skating laps in his head. Mountain cracks his neck loud enough to make a freshman flinch. Everyone’s hungry.
The buzzer sounds, and the ref skates out.
Kane taps his stick twice against the boards. “Let’s go.”
I’m the last to stand, and when I do, I slap my helmet on and strap it into place.
We hit the ice. The crowd explodes around us, shaking the boards. Every stomp reverberates through my chest. Lights cut across the rink, cameras flash.
I lower my head and skate fast, slicking through the ice, the cold stinging my cheeks.
My blades bite hard, carving lines into the fresh sheet as we circle the center.
I glance into the stands, my eyes locking on my father’s.
He’s sitting there, all snarl and stillness, arms folded across his chest, his jaw locked.
No clapping like the rest. No standing in excitement.
He just watches with that same look he always gives me—measured and unimpressed.
Dad doesn’t nod nor blink. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. It’s like I’m a ghost in his arena. My stomach twists, but determination bites at my flesh. This is my last chance to step up and make him see me. Tonight, winning is the only option.
The whistle blows, and I snap my head back to center ice. Aaron skates close, huddling beside me.
“Sure you can focus tonight?” He smirks.
I ignore him. My fist tightens around my stick.
“With an ass like that, I know I wouldn’t be able to,” he continues, his gaze shifting past me to the bench.
Inadvertently, I follow his line of sight. Sam’s there, her back to us, as she places a stack of clean towels on the bench.
“And that mouthpiece on her. Feisty. I like her. Better keep her close.”
Still, I don’t bite back. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Keep in it on the ice is all that replays in my head.
“Bet she likes to be choked, too. You ever try it? You should. She looks like she’d love being pinned down.”
Blood rushes to my ears. Hot and violent. He skates backward now, smirking as he eases into face-off position across from Kane.
“Think about it,” he continues loud enough for the others to hear, then smirks.
Kane gives me a quick side glance, and I know it’s his way of checking if I need to be reeled in. I don’t move. Instead, I lock in.
Game on, motherfucker.
The puck drops and we’re in it. Kane wins the face-off and drops it to me. I grab it, cut left, and drive it down the boards. Baymont’s right wing collides with me at the blue line. Hard. Shoulder to shoulder.
Good. I need the hit, need the pain to shake the fury loose, to exorcise the weight of expectation and let go of the pressure.
My body rocks, and my skates scrape as my breath punches out of me. The puck skips ahead, just out of reach. I recover fast, pivoting off the boards and hooking around their defender. My stick taps the puck, drags it back in before it crosses the line.
I swing wide behind the net and scan the ice. Kane’s battling at the top of the crease, and another teammate’s crashing down on the right side. I fake the pass, force the defenseman to shift with me, then cut inside.
Another defender charges. I drop my shoulder, slip the check, toe-drag left, and fire. Wide. The glass rings as the puck slams off it right next to the net. Groans swell from the crowd like a punch to the ribs. I circle hard, my lips tight while chewing on the rubber mouth guard.
That should have been in.
Baymont grabs possession, pushing the rush.
I skate hard, chasing back, pumping my legs, lungs burning with cold rage.
One of their wings tries to thread a pass through the slot, clean and confident.
But Kane reads it early. He cuts it off, redirects it to Ryker, who hammers it down the boards for a clear shot.
Until the whistle blows.
I skate toward the bench, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My focus is ironclad but is momentarily swayed when Aaron skates up beside me.
“Whole lot of effort just to hit the glass, Williamsburg,” he taunts.
I shoulder-check him, fighting to keep my composure. Things are already bad enough; going off on him early into the game would only make shit worse. Aaron laughs.
“Hope she wasn’t watching that—kinda ruins the fantasy, don’t you think?” He bumps my shoulder as we cross paths. “Don’t worry, there’s still time to try and impress her.”
I slide through the gate and drop down on the bench without a word. I keep my helmet on, but my ears are burning as I clutch my stick so hard it might snap clean in half. Across the rink, Aaron tosses a look over his shoulder, winking in Sam’s direction.
Mountain leans close. “Let it go, man. Keep your head in the game.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I bite down on the mouthguard and stare ahead as the next shift takes the ice.
Let it go? Not a chance. I’m wired too tight.