Chapter 15 Jamie
Jamie
The air inside the rink is sharp and cold and burns my lungs. My skates carve hard lines into the ice as I circle the net again, trying to outskate the thoughts that have been gnawing at me since yesterday.
Chloe. That kiss.
I push harder, letting the sting in my legs replace everything else. I’m not avoiding Miles––I just don’t trust myself not to swing first. Miles has this way of poking, of pressing exactly where it hurts, and after last night, I know he’s going to open his mouth eventually.
Coach blows the whistle. “Bring it in!”
We gather near the bench, breathing heavy. Miles skates up beside me, sticks his mouthguard between his teeth, and smirks like he already knows I’m one second away from losing it.
“Nice hustle,” he says. “You finally learned how to skate and not trip over your ego?”
I don’t bite. Not yet.
Coach starts talking about plays, drills, defensive structure—the usual. My mind drifts. The rink lights glare off the ice, turning it into a blinding mirror. I can still smell the sweat and the faint chemical burn of the Zamboni. My gloves are damp, my jaw tight.
We’re running a scrimmage next, red jerseys versus black. Miles and I end up on the same side. I tell myself I’ll focus, just get through practice. I keep my head down, eyes on the puck.
But then Miles laughs after I miss a pass.
“Jesus, Jamie,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear, “you better play better than you fu—”
I don’t even think—my stick drops, my gloves hit the ice, and I shove him back hard enough that he nearly topples.
“What did you say?” My voice comes out loud.
He grins, bloodthirsty, like he’s been waiting for this. “You heard me. You raced to get with her. Why? Worried that if she had a taste of me first, you wouldn’t have had a chance…”
I know he’s hurt. I know he’s lashing out. I should have a conversation with him. Instead all I can feel is pure fucking rage.
The next thing I know, my fist connects with his jaw. The sound is ugly, solid. He staggers, recovers, and comes right back at me.
We’re chaos. Sticks clatter. Someone yells my name, someone else swears. He grabs my jersey, I shove him again, and the two of us go down hard. Ice burns through my pads, and the world narrows to the white flash of his gloves and the copper taste of blood in my mouth as he punches me.
“Enough!” Coach’s voice cuts through everything.
Hands grab at us, pulling, separating. I’m breathing like I just skated a full period, chest heaving, heart pounding. Miles’ lip is split. I wipe my nose with the back of my glove and see the red smear.
Coach looks like he’s one second away from throwing both of us into the wall. “What the hell was that?”
“He started it,” Miles says, wiping at his mouth.
I glare at him. “Say it again. Go on.”
“Say what? That you—”
“Don’t,” Coach barks. “Not another damn word.”
Silence, heavy and taut. I can feel everyone watching. The scrape of skates, the cold hum of the rink lights.
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t afford this right now. You two want to kill each other, do it after the season.”
No one moves. My knuckles throb, blood running from my nose to my lip.
He sighs, muttering something under his breath. “As much as I’d like to bench you both, I can’t. Not with Ryan out.”
Someone—Cal or maybe Tanner—pipes up. “Wait, what happened to Ryan?”
Coach hesitates just long enough for everyone to go quiet again. “He got into a motorbike accident. Hit and run. Kid’s lucky to be alive but he’ll be on crutches for the next six weeks.”
A ripple of disbelief moves through the team. “You serious?” someone says.
“Six weeks?” another echoes.
I stand there, staring at the ice, the red drops near my skates bright against the white. My stomach turns.
Miles runs a hand through his hair. “How bad?”
“Bad enough,” Coach says. “Broke his leg in two places. He’ll be off skates till December, minimum.”
The guys start talking all at once—shock, concern, disbelief—but my mind is already spinning in another direction. Ryan’s careful. Always has been. Never pushes his luck off the ice. And yet somehow he ends up wrecked on a bike, out of nowhere.
My eyes flick to Miles. He’s standing there too calm, too collected, jaw clenched in that smug way he gets when he thinks no one’s watching.
And right then, I know. I don’t have proof, but I know.
Coach clears his throat. “We’ll all go see him tomorrow, after morning practice. He’s at St. Luke’s. Bring something, cards, whatever—just don’t show up acting like idiots.”
There’s a murmur of agreement. Someone cracks a joke about bringing beer. Coach glares and the laughter dies quick.
Then he blows the whistle again. “Alright, back to work. We still have a game to win.”
“Against North River,” Cal says, spinning his stick. “They’re still loaded this year.”
“Loaded and dirty,” Tanner adds.
Coach nods. “Yeah, and don’t think I didn’t notice their little stunt postponing the last match. Probably wanted time to buy themselves a few new ringers. Bunch of cheaters.”
That earns a few snorts and groans from the guys. Someone mutters about North River’s captain being a walking foul.
“Exactly,” Coach says. “So we need discipline. Which means no more of this—” he gestures between Miles and me, “—crap. You two want to fight, take it outside my rink.”
I nod stiffly.
Miles smirks but doesn’t say a word.
We skate back to our positions. The ice feels colder now, the air heavier. Every move I make feels mechanical, my focus fraying at the edges. The sound of pucks slamming against boards echoes like gunfire in my head.
At one point, I glance toward Miles. He’s laughing with one of the defensemen, tapping his stick against the ice, pretending like nothing happened. But I see the small cut on his lip and the satisfaction in his eyes.
My nose still aches. I taste iron every time I swallow.
Ryan’s accident replays in my mind—motorbike, late at night, “lucky to be alive.” It doesn’t add up. Ryan drives a vespa for fuck sake. Who the hell would hit a man riding a vespa?
Miles. Miles who almost beat the shit out of Ryan for approaching Chloe.
This dumbass. Does he understand how badly this could have gone if someone had seen him?
Ryan comes from a wealthy family from what I hear.
Miles’s interest in Chloe will get us all in trouble. Because if he goes down for this, I am definitely, one way or another getting dragged right alongside him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I don’t need that kind of heat, and neither does he. I should punch more sense into him for risking us…and our families.
I try to focus on drills, on the rhythm of passing and skating and shooting, but the thought keeps circling back. Miles had something to do with it and we are so very fucked.
When Coach finally calls it, everyone’s exhausted. Sweat clings under my pads, my lungs burn, and the tension hasn’t left my shoulders since the fight.
“Good work,” Coach says, tone flat. “Hit the showers. No one’s dying today, so I’ll call that a win.”
The guys laugh weakly.
Miles passes me on his way off the ice. “Nice swing,” he mutters, low enough only I can hear.
I don’t look at him. I just skate the other way, jaw tight, every instinct in me screaming to hit him again.
Instead, I head toward the bench, pull off my helmet, and wipe at the blood drying under my nose. The sting grounds me. The anger simmers low but steady, a hum beneath my skin.
Coach catches my eye from across the rink. “Try not to break anyone else today, Crest.”
I nod once. “Yes, Coach.”
But as I head toward the locker room, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to break anyway, and this time, it won’t be a nose.
I knew Miles was a petty son of a bitch. Always has been.
Back when we were kids, he used to steal my homework just to rewrite his name on it and hand it in before I did.
Once, he replaced the sugar in my coffee with salt before a tournament because I’d gotten MVP instead of him.
In college, he took it up a notch—little things, like flirting with whoever I was seeing, “accidentally” leaking plays to opposing teams during practice, or telling Coach I was hungover when I’d been the only sober one at the party.
Petty. Strategic. Always smiling like he was joking even when he absolutely wasn’t.
But showing up at The Crest tonight with Bella? That’s a new low.
The place is buzzing, music spilling out the open doors, light glinting off liquor bottles behind the counter. I’m restocking glasses when I spot them in one of the corner booths. Miles in his worn leather jacket, Bella practically in his lap, his hand tracing her thigh like she’s a damn trophy.
He’s not even looking at her. He’s looking right at me.
Our eyes meet across the room, and that smug little grin spreads across his face. Yeah. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache. He’s trying to goad me. Trying to make me lose my temper again, the way I did at practice. But not tonight. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
I turn to Kyle. “You mind taking table eight?”
He follows my gaze, winces. “Miles?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Do me a favor and serve them. Anything they want. On the house.”
Kyle raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. I can feel Miles’ gaze still burning holes in my back as I grab a smoke and head outside.
The night air hits cold and clean. I light up, leaning against the brick wall behind the bar, watching the smoke curl into the streetlight glow. I pull out my phone.
I’ve been thinking about calling Chloe all evening. I don’t know why it took me this long. Maybe because I knew if I heard her voice, I’d want to drop everything and just go.
I do it anyway.
One ring. Two. Then she picks up, and it’s FaceTime.
Her face fills my screen, flushed and messy and perfect. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in what looks like a half-furnished room—bare pink walls, boxes stacked behind her, a half-assembled dresser. There’s a streak of dust across her cheek and a small wrench in her hand.
“Hey,” I say, smiling. “How’s moving going?”
There’s a loud audible gasp. “What the hell happened to your face?”
“I play hockey, remember?” I lie.
She laughs, that bright, easy sound I swear could fix every bad day I’ve ever had. “I totally forgot just how rough you guys play.”
“I’ll survive. What have you been up to, peeping Tom?”
“I can’t say I love that nickname,” she laughs. “And I’ve been trying to reassemble this dresser for two hours, so I’d say… not great.”
“Two hours?” I tease. “What, did you lose the manual?”
“I am the manual,” she says. “Turns out, I’m just terrible at following myself. I built one just like this before and thought, there’s no way I would fuck this up. Turns out, it is not like riding a bike and I totally forgot.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a ton of experience with dressers.”
“Really?” She smirks. “You build a lot of them?”
“Of course. I have also broken quite a few in my days,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and that’s what kills me—the way her eyes crinkle when she does it.
She’s wearing a pale tank top, soft cotton clinging to her shoulders, and the neckline dips just enough for me to see the faint shadow of the marks I left on her.
My marks. There’s a light sheen of sweat on her collarbone, and my brain just short-circuits.
“You want help building it?” I ask.
She pauses, lips curving. “You offering?”
“I could be there in, say, an hour.”
“Hmm.” She taps the wrench against her chin like she’s thinking. “If you come over, I’ll order pizza and beers.”
“Pizza?” I grin. “What kind of cheerleader eats pizza?”
“Fuck you. Cheerleaders eat carbs,” she fires back, but there’s a huge grin on her face now. “You’re so stereotypical.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll come over and let you school me. What kind?”
“I’ll text you ideas as soon as I can get the menu.”
“Should I bring something else? We can skip on pizza altogether and get something different.”
She cocks her head. “Like what?”
And before I can stop myself, I say, “Chipotle.”
It slips out. I don’t even realize it until I see her expression shift—just slightly—but not in the way I expected. No flinch, no awkward silence. Just a calm little shrug as she says, “It’s a bit late for Chipotle, and it’ll make me sluggish. Any other suggestions?”
I exhale. Hell, I shouldn’t have said that. I just accidentally retraumatize the girl I like and might have given it away. By the looks on her face, she doesn’t put it together.
“Let’s get pizza. Let me know when you find the menu.”
“Great,” she says, smiling. “See you soon.”
“About an hour?”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” Something in her voice—soft, easy, trusting—wraps around me like a tether. “Bye, baby,” she says.
I grin. “Bye, baby.”
I hang up, staring at my reflection in the black screen. The cigarette burns down between my fingers before I flick it away.
I was so damn angry at Miles when I stepped outside, but somehow, in five minutes, Chloe managed to pull me right back from the edge.
Maybe that rat bastard was right after all. We should have stayed away from her. She has way too much power over me.
Still, the memory of her skin, the look in her eyes as she rode my cock, it’s enough to make me forget every ounce of logic I ever had.
When I step back inside, the bar’s a little quieter. The song has changed. Kyle’s wiping down the counter, and the corner booth is empty.
“They left?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. That girl, Bella, she looked drunk.”
I don’t respond. Just nod, jaw tight.
He probably couldn’t stand knowing I didn’t rise to it. That’s the thing about him—he feeds off chaos. When you don’t give him the reaction he wants, it starves him.
I grab a glass, pour a drink I don’t really want, and lean against the counter, watching the door even though I know he’s gone.
My stomach twists. I haven’t even had time to process the fight from practice, and now this?
Then I pocket my phone, finish my drink, and look around the bar.
For once, I don’t feel like fighting. Not Miles, not anyone. All I can think about is a pink room, a half-built dresser, and a girl waiting for me with pizza and beer.
I smile to myself, shake my head, and grab my keys.
Maybe I’ll finally let myself have something good tonight.