Page 24

The mascot uniform in my hands is a fucking joke. Cheap fabric, stiff as hell, probably hasn’t been washed in months. The oversized head grins up at me from the bench, like it knows this is a goddamn humiliation ritual.

Across the room, Eli holds his own uniform, his face unreadable. Not a single protest. Not even a flicker of irritation. Just that same calm acceptance that makes me want to put my fist through the wall.

Coach folds his arms. “With the way you two acted last game, you’re benched for the next one.”

My grip tightens. “This is peak season. You can’t bench me.”

Coach doesn’t blink. “You should’ve thought of that.”

The words sink into my skin, burning their way through muscle and bone. My stomach knots, tight and ugly. No. This isn’t happening.

“Coach. Come on. This is ridiculous.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Jacobs says, voice flat, unimpressed. “Put them on. Now.”

Silence. The entire locker room watches, waiting to see what I’ll do. I see the glances, the barely concealed smirks. I can’t believe this shit. I’m getting fucking benched and shoved into a mascot suit.

I breathe through my nose. Eli’s already pulling his hoodie off, not a single complaint. Of course he isn’t pissed. He doesn’t give a fuck about this team. He just landed here by accident.

I yank the suit on. It’s too hot, itchy, the fabric clings onto my skin. The second I shove the head over my own, the world goes dark, filtered through mesh eye holes.

Laughter ripples through the room.

Practice is hell.

Every move feels wrong. The suit makes it impossible to skate the way I need to. My legs burn, my stick feels foreign in my hands, and every single pass is off. The guys barely look at me. I’m not a threat. Not like this. I might as well not fucking exist.

By the time it’s over, I’m drenched in sweat, my muscles aching. Coach doesn’t even acknowledge me as he skates off. Like I’m not even worth the time.

I rip the fucking head off and toss it onto the bench.

Coach disappears into his office.

I follow.

He doesn’t look surprised when I step inside and shut the door.

I rake a hand through my hair, breathing hard. “Coach. This game matters. I’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll do whatever you want. But I can’t be benched.”

Jacobs leans against his desk. “You think I don’t know that?”

My teeth grind together. My father’s flying in for this game. If I’m sitting on the bench, he’ll…

I exhale sharply. “You don’t get it. My dad…”

Jacobs exhales through his nose. “You should’ve thought of that before getting into a fight with Eli.”

I stare at him. My hands flex at my sides. “It was a misunderstanding.”

He shakes his head. “Really?” he asks sarcastically.

Silence stretches between us. My pulse pounds at my temples.

“This wasn’t my idea, but I have it on good authority that I can’t keep both of you on the ice if all you can think of is pummeling each other. You and Eli are good players but you might be Type A…or was it C? Either way I know you are too high strung, and this is what you need.”

The breath locks in my lungs. There it is. Therapy speak.

If it wasn’t his, there’s only one person it could’ve been.

Sienna.

My jaw tenses. Coach’s face gives nothing away, but his tone shifts just enough to tell me he knows exactly what’s going through my head.

“You’re a leader, Caleb. You want your spot back? Act like it.”

I don’t say another word. Just turn and walk out.

But the rage stays.

I should be heading back to campus. Instead, I find myself here.

Coach Jacobs’ house. The porch light cutting through the early evening haze. My fingers tighten on the wheel. My jaw aches, a dull reminder of my father’s idea of a lesson. I press against the bruise, inhale sharply. I have survived worse. I’m fine.

I step out, climb the porch, and knock. My patience is already razor thin. If Coach won’t listen at practice, maybe he’ll listen here.

The door swings open.

Not Coach. Her.

Sienna blinks up at me, barefoot, still damp from a shower. Loose sweatpants hang low on her hips, the waistband untied. Her tank clings to her curves, thin enough to show she isn’t wearing a bra. Her hair drips against her shoulder.

I exhale through my nose, gripping the doorframe. Rage coils tight in my stomach.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice is steady, but she shifts, weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“Your dad’s still at practice, huh?” I say, already knowing the answer.

Her lips part, then press into a line. “If you’re looking for him, check the school.”

She moves to shut the door.

I shove it open and step inside.

She gasps, stumbling back. “What the hell—”

The door clicks shut behind me.

“What are you doing?” She presses back against the wall as I close the space between us.

I don’t answer. My hand wraps around her throat, pinning her in place. Her breath hitches. I don’t squeeze. Not really hard. Just enough for her to understand .

“This is your fault.” My voice is rough, low.

Her lashes flutter. “What are you talking about?”

I press my fingers a fraction tighter. Her lips part, a small, choked sound slipping free. I ease up, running my thumb over her mouth. Her skin is warm, soft. Too soft.

“You wanted to humiliate me with some fucking mascot suits?” I murmur. “Then you’ll pay for that.”

Her breath stutters.

I fist a hand in her wet hair, yanking her down.

She falls to her knees. Right here in the living room.

I reach back and lock the door.