Chapter Twenty-One Alex #2
The next shift starts, and I jump the boards before Coach even finishes the call.
I hit the ice, my knees low, my chest buzzing.
The puck moves quickly, kicked around in the neutral zone.
I scan the area until I track Aaron down, my focus locking tight.
He circles, reading his play while waiting for the perfect break.
The second the puck crosses into our zone, I press forward. The pass is sloppy at best, too soft and too slow. Aaron pounces, cuts left, catches it clean, and drives down the wing.
Got you, bitch.
Closing the gap, I match his stride. My stick digs into the ice, blade tight against his hip as I pin him to the boards.
The hit lands. It’s not dirty, but it’s not light either.
He elbows back—quick and sharp—buried in my ribs.
I flinch, the pain blooming through my side, but I absorb it and skate through it.
The ref doesn’t call it, barely even sees it. One thing about Aaron, he’s always been good at riding the edge. Cheap shots, sneaky hits that are always legal enough to stay on the ice. But just dirty enough to get under your skin.
We battle for control in the corner. Skates tangling. Shoulders shoving. I keep my head down and jaw locked. He tries to spin out again, but I cut him off. He resets near the circle, slow and smug, like he’s just biding time.
Then he crosses the line.
“Ain’t your daddy watching?” he sneers, skating into my space like he owns it. “Bet he’s real proud that his son hasn’t scored.”
“Fuck off.” I shove him. Not hard. Just enough. Enough to remind him that this rink isn’t his. It’s mine.
Aaron doesn’t move back. He only grins wider, leaning in like he wants me to lose it. Coach’s voice flashes through my head again. Play the game. Keep your head. He’s going to bait all of you. Don’t let him.
So, I skate. I stay on him, shoulder to shoulder, as he gets the puck again. He tries to pivot, but I read it. I drop my shoulder, time it clean, then cut him off and slam him as he releases the puck.
It fumbles free.
Kane snags it and clears. He drives it to the net, weaving around our opponents, dodging hits and…
Score.
The fans jump up, hooting and hollering. Aaron chuckles breathlessly and wipes his glove across his mouth.
“You skating tonight?” he goads. “Or are you going to keep playing like a little bitch?”
My grip tightens on the stick, jaw pulsing as I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste the blood. Coppery and metallic.
But I don’t swing; instead, I keep skating, swallowing back every curse that wants to claw its way from my throat. Because Coach is watching. And so is my father. And I refuse to give either of them another thing to be disappointed about.
Mountain’s barking from the crease, his gloved hand slapping the post, eyes narrowed in as Baymont resets at the blue line.
“Back check! Watch the left!” he shouts.
I shift on instinct and drop into coverage. Kane intercepts a lazy pass and flips it high off the glass. The puck bounces off a stanchion and ricochets right to me at center ice. I catch it off the blade.
The zone’s open, just me and two defenders. I fake left, push right, dip my shoulder, and slide between them. I barely miss a poke check as I keep the puck tight to my stick. One of them clips the back of my skate. I stumble, recover, and keep going.
The crowd shouts, their voices crescendoing off the ceiling. Adrenaline roars in my ears as I shift my weight, wind up, and snap the shot.
Top shelf.
Bar down.
It clangs off the crossbar and drops behind the goalie. Goal.
The boys explode on the bench, slamming the boards, screaming. I’m already skating back to center. I don’t need the celebration. I just need the next face-off.
Aaron is already there, waiting with sweat beading along his chin, but he’s still smirking. I skate up, square off across the circle from him. He leans on his stick, his voice low, just for me.
“Looks like your girl’s impressed.” He tips his head.
I follow his gaze to find Sam standing at the edge of the tunnel, her eyes trained on me. She’s invested, but that doesn’t mean she’s invested in me. Hockey is a different beast live; even a person like her who hates the sport is bound to appreciate it up close.
“You gave her your number, but maybe when I wipe the floor with you punks, I’ll give her mine. Bet she’ll look real good in nothing but my sweater.”
It happens before I can stop it. Everything snaps.
The noise, the ice, the air. All I see is his face and the sound of my gloves hitting the ice.
I lunge, my fist connecting with his cheek.
His head jerks to the side, but he recovers fast and swings wildly.
I duck, slam my shoulder into his chest, and drive him to the ice.
“Stay the fuck away from her,” I seethe.
We hit the ground hard, him beneath me as he grabs the front of my jersey.
I hammer him again—his jaw, ribs, whatever I can reach.
The crowd loses it as the refs race toward us.
Hands grab at my shoulder, my arms, and neck, but I don’t stop.
It’s as if I see red, and it takes them pulling me by the collar to finally snap me out of it.
My fist aches, but it’s the look on his face that makes it worth it. Aaron takes the beating in stride, running the tip of his glove over his lip to check for blood. It’s split, and there’s a decent-sized gash above his eye. But he’s still grinning as if he’s the one who won.
“All that rage and you fight like you fuck. Weak.” He shrugs from the ref’s grip, his eyes boring into me.
I snap at him again, but someone grabs me.
“Penalty box, now,” the ref barks.
I cross the ice, still seething. Sam makes eye contact with me, concern etched in hers. A part of me hates that she saw that, hates that she’s seen me lose it. But the other half of me is glad she saw it. Not because I want her scared or anything close to that. Because I want her to know.
She’s not just wearing my jersey.
She’s wearing me.
And anyone who thinks they can mess with that? They’ll bleed.
I drop down on the bench, not daring to glance up at my father. I don’t need to. I can feel his eyes glaring into me. I’ve once again embarrassed his name, and he’s going to make sure I know it.
Shift after shift, I stay glued to the bench, eyes fixed on the ice.
Anything to avoid facing Coach’s rage. I should have been back on the ice by now.
The average penalty for misconduct is ten minutes, but he’s punishing me.
He gave me an order, and I did the opposite.
Aaron’s back out by the fifth shift. He’s been taped up, but still smirking, and I only hope his lips re-split every time he grins. I hope it fucking burns.
Baymont scores on a lucky bounce that skips past Mountain’s blocker side. Our second line answers quickly. Kane crashes the net and hammers the rebound home. Four–five our way.
Baymont gets another breakaway. Mountain sprawls and makes the glove save of the night.
He pops up with a snarl that whips the crowd into a frenzy.
He bangs his stick against the post and points at the scoreboard like it owes him something.
People whisper behind me, shocked by his outburst. I get it.
Mountain is usually the quiet one, but when it comes to this game, he becomes someone else entirely.
Both teams go back and forth until Baymont finally clears another shot. Then the whistle blows.
Third period. Five–five. Tied.
Whatever tension I had before is at an all-time high now.
Coach finally taps my shoulder. I glance up at him, and he tips his head toward the ice.
I nod and hop the boards. The weight hits me the second my skates touch the sheet.
Every eye in the house, every whisper, every click of a camera feels especially daunting.
They’re all watching. All counting on me to help bring it home.
I roll my neck, mentally preparing myself, pushing all of the negative thoughts from my mind. I home in until there is nothing but me, the referee, and the puck in his hand. Tonight’s win will be mine. My father will finally see that I’m more than what he’s damned me to be, and Aaron will eat shit.
The puck drops, and we control possession. Blood rushes to my ears, and I pump hard, cutting across and dodging a check. My boys watch me closely, blocking anyone in my path. I get the puck, run it home, the sound of guys being knocked to the side behind me as my backdrop.
This is it. The winning shot. It’s clear, and wide open. I suck in a breath, raise my stick, and shoot.
Too high.
It slams into the glass with a hollow thud.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I wheel back, ready to chase the puck, but Kane snags it, turns, and rifles it into the top corner. The goal light flares, the horn screams, and the bench erupts.
We won.
Bodies fly onto the ice, swarming Kane, helmets and gloves thrown to the floor, sticks lifted. As I peel toward my friend, my mouth is instantly dry. We won; that’s a good thing, right? Then why does it feel like a failure?
When I reach Kane, his eyes drift to the private area where my father and the sponsors sit to watch the games. I follow his line of sight, expecting to see my father’s angry mug. But the section is empty. No suit, no snarl, no Richard Williamsburg. Didn’t even bother to stay for the win.
Why would he? I’d already lost the puck several times and spent the bulk of the game on the bench. I know what to expect from my father, but his coldness and the dismissal don’t hurt any less.
I push off the ice and down the tunnel, the noise from the arena fading with each stride. My gear feels heavy, my chest even more so.
Sam’s standing at the end, a clipboard in hand, one foot propped against the cinderblock wall. Her gaze flicks up as I approach. She stands, and a playful smile starts to form on her lips.
“You’re not terrible,” she says, tone light and easy. “Kind of hoped you were garbage for all the shit y’all have put me through. But it turns out… you’re actually good.”
While her words heal some wound inside, I don’t smile. My lips and fist still sting from the fight, and all the rage from my father’s rejection starts to boil inside me again.
“You want information?” I ask, no warning and no warm-up.
She straightens, slightly surprised if the knitted brows are any indication.
“Meet me tonight.” I walk past her, the heat in my body coiling tighter with each step. The adrenaline is still humming. The shame is pooling behind my ribs. Or maybe it’s something else—something hotter, darker. Then it hits me.
It’s not shame at all. It’s control.
And I don’t have it, but I’m going to take it back.
Starting with her.