Chapter 43 Adrian
Adrian
The testing room looks like it belongs in a hospital. White walls, gray carpet, fluorescent lights humming just enough to get under my skin. A clipboard, a stack of papers, and a woman in a lab coat who smiles too much.
I hate it instantly.
She has me read lines, copy shapes, circle words that blur and slip like fish under the surface.
The more I concentrate, the worse it gets.
Sweat trickles down my back. She makes notes with a click of her pen every time I stumble.
Every click is a gunshot to my pride. I grit my teeth and force my way through it.
The room stinks of toner and cheap coffee, my throat dry as dust.
When it’s over, she clears her throat and lays out the results like they’re a mercy.
“Mr. Hale, you have classic markers of dyslexia. Moderate, consistent. This explains the difficulties you’ve described.
With accommodations—extra exam time, alternative formats—you’ll be able to level the playing field. Many high-performing athletes—”
I stop listening. I don’t want her pity, her careful tone.
I want to tear the papers in half, flip the sterile little desk, and walk out.
Instead, I sit there, jaw locked, hands curled into fists so tight my nails cut crescents into my palms. Relief slides in with the shame, a sharp contradiction.
I’m not stupid. But the word still echoes in my head in my father’s voice, the one branded into me since I was six. Stupid, useless, a waste of his name.
The woman keeps talking. I nod once and leave before I break something.
Clara’s waiting just outside the door. She’s perched on a plastic chair in the hallway, pretending to read, but when she looks up, her eyes scan me too fast, too carefully, cataloging every crack in my armor.
I should keep walking, shut this down before she sees too much.
But my legs stop in front of her like they have their own orders.
Her hand slides into mine, small and steady. “You did it.”
The pride in her voice lands heavier than it should. I don’t deserve it. My chest tightens with the urge to shove her hand away before she realizes how ugly this feels. Instead, I crush her fingers in mine until she winces.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” The word good sticks in my throat like a fishhook. “Like I’m fixed.”
Her eyes soften, but not with pity. Never pity. “Not fixed. Just armed. Now you know what you’re fighting. That’s strategy.”
I stare at her, at the calm certainty in her face. Strategy. Not weakness. Not broken. It still tastes like ash. But for the first time, I don’t spit it out.
Back in my apartment, the silence is suffocating.
No crowd, no ice, no Clara to hold the edges of me together.
Just me and the wall where I’ve been punishing myself for weeks.
Playsheets and practice notes are taped in messy rows, scarred with ink, some ripped, others smeared where my sweat bled the lines.
Angry scratches slash through diagrams, black scars that look more like wounds than strategy.
I stand there staring until the roar in my chest turns into something I can’t swallow.
Then I tear one down.
The paper comes away jagged, tape snapping like a bone.
I crush it in my fist and hurl it into the trash.
Another follows. And another. The sound of paper ripping ricochets off the walls like gunfire.
Each page I tear down feels like peeling off a layer of failure, of shame, of the lies I’ve let live on my skin for too long.
When the wall is bare, I’m left shaking, my pulse drumming in my throat.
I grab a fresh sheet and lay it flat on the desk.
The pen feels heavy, like it’s waiting to betray me.
My grip is too tight, the plastic creaking.
The urge to snap it, to put my fist through the drywall, spikes hard and hot.
I see it for a split second—splinters, ink, blood—and my body begs for the release.
But I make myself breathe. Once. Twice.
I drag the letters out, each stroke an act of defiance, forcing the violence into the page instead of the wall: DATA. STRATEGY. ADVANTAGE. The lines wobble. The letters tilt. Imperfect. Ugly. But they’re mine. Not my father’s voice, not a donor’s judgment, not some sterile test result. Mine.
I tack the page dead center on the empty wall, the single pin pushed in with a slow, deliberate pressure. I step back. Stare. The heat in my chest doesn’t fade, but it shifts. It’s no longer a fire that wants to burn me down. It’s fuel. A blueprint.
Not weakness. Not broken. A weapon.
That night, after practice, Clara waits by the glass doors of the rink, her breath fogging in the cold air, eyes lit like she’s been holding her breath for me.
I don’t tell her I almost walked out of the testing room, that my chest still feels cracked open.
I just let her slip her hand into mine, grounding me.
We don’t make it three steps before a shadow peels away from the corridor. Coach Addison. He blocks the exit, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “Clara.”
She stiffens. “Coach.”
“I’ve spoken with the academic program.” His gaze flicks to me, then back to her, weighing us both. “Based on your work with Hale here—and with Talia’s recommendation—you’ll be offered an internship next semester. Hands-on. With this team. Real athletes. Real stakes.”
Clara blinks, speechless. Then the joy breaks over her face so fast it almost knocks me back. “That’s… incredible. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” Addison replies smoothly. “It’s good for the team. And for optics. Donors like progressive moves. And Hale’s performance this season proves you can handle the pressure.” He claps me on the shoulder, the gesture heavy, deliberate. “You’ll keep her honest, right, Hale?”
My jaw tightens. My hand on Clara’s squeezes too hard, but she doesn’t flinch. I give him the barest nod. He smirks, satisfied, and strides off into the shadows. Clara is still glowing, her whole body humming. She turns to me, her eyes wide.
“Adrian—did you hear him? I’m going to be here. With you. With the team.”
Jealousy claws hot at my ribs. The thought of rookies leaning on her, letting her crawl into their heads the way she crawled into mine—fuck.
Rage simmers. I can already picture their eyes following her across the locker room, waiting for her to steady them.
And worse: she’ll give it. She’ll do for them what she did for me.
I drag in a breath, swallowing the fire that screams at me to say no, to lock her away, to keep her for myself.
But I won’t be the man who dims her light. Not after everything she’s given me.
My voice comes out rough, the words tasting like a surrender. “I’m proud of you.”
Her smile is pure sunlight, so bright it hurts to look at. She rises on her toes and kisses me, soft and sure. For a moment, it’s enough. But the heat in my chest doesn’t fade. It shifts, coils, hardens into a promise: They can lean on her, but they’ll never have her. She’s mine.
After practice, the corridor hums with voices and the stink of sweat. Two rookies linger near the exit, heads bent close.
“…he said my sister should learn some manners.”
“…what the fuck does that mean?”
“…means if she doesn’t, our family will regret it. Word for word. ‘Families like mine don’t forget an insult.’”
The rookie’s jaw is clenched so hard I hear his teeth grind. I step into their shadow. “Who?”
They both freeze. The kid who spoke swallows hard, color draining from his face. “Hale, it’s nothing—”
I take one step closer, letting the silence burn. My voice comes out flat, lethal. “Who. Said. It.”
The other rookie nudges him. “Just tell him, man.”
The kid drops his eyes. “Cavendish. One of the donors. He was in the box tonight.”
Cavendish. Old money. My father’s circle.
The kind of man who thinks his last name makes him untouchable.
My fists clench. The old me would’ve found him tonight and broken his jaw.
The itch for it is still there, alive in my bones.
But Clara’s voice cuts through my head, sharp as glass. Don’t play his game. Change the rules.
So I do.
I call him after midnight. No pleasantries. “Hale. To what do I owe—”
“You don’t go near him again,” I say, my tone ice. “You don’t look at his sister. You don’t use this team’s families as leverage. You don’t breathe our air.”
A pause. A scoff. “Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?”
“Yeah.” I lean forward, phone pressed tight to my ear.
“A man one headline away from being ruined. I pick up the phone, and the Chronicle runs a story about you cornering an eighteen-year-old and threatening his sister. Try explaining that to your board. To your wife. To every so-called friend who’ll cut your throat the second you stop being useful. ”
Silence. He’s choking on it.
“You wouldn’t—”
“I would. And that’s the polite option. Pull your funding if you want. We’ll survive. But if I see your face again, if I hear your name in my locker room…” My jaw aches with restraint. “You won’t have to worry about headlines. You’ll have to worry about me.”
The line goes dead quiet. I hang up before he can answer. The violence is still there in my fists, begging to be let out, but for once, I don’t give in. The satisfaction is colder, sharper, like the clean bite of steel against my tongue. It feels like power.
The next day at practice, a rookie cracks under pressure. His stick wobbles, the puck skitters wide, and the jeers start.
“Nice hands, princess.”
“Try hitting the ice, not the glass.”
The kid’s face flames red. He fumbles again, his shoulders caving in. I’m already stepping forward, mouth open to tear into him, when Clara moves faster. She slips past me, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, calm as glass in the middle of the storm.
“Stop,” she says, her voice cutting through the noise without raising it. “Look at me.”
The rookie blinks, startled. Clara crouches in front of him, eye level. “You’re spiraling because you’re trying to think about everyone else. Forget them. It’s just you and me.”
My jaw locks. He looks at her like she’s the only person in the rink. Heat spikes through my chest, sharp and possessive. I want to rip him away from her, remind him whose name is on her back. But then I see the way she works.
“Breathe,” she says softly, demonstrating. “Match me. In. Out. Again.”
The kid obeys. His shoulders hitch, then lower. His chest steadies.
“Good,” she says, a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Now pick up the puck. Don’t think. Just feel the pass. You’ve done this a thousand times.”
The rookie swallows hard, nods, and fires a clean pass across the ice. The jeers quiet. Someone mutters, “Well, damn.”
Clara rises, giving the kid a quiet nod. “See? You already had it.”
My jealousy shifts, molten, until it becomes something else.
Something heavier. I can’t take my eyes off her—her calm, her precision, the way she pulled him back from the edge like it was nothing.
She doesn’t belong behind a desk. She belongs here, in the storm, pulling broken pieces back into working order.
Her gaze flicks to me across the ice. For a heartbeat, we just look at each other, my chest still burning, her eyes steady and sure. The pride hits me like a punch.
Mine.
Mine, and I’ll burn this place down before anyone takes her from it.