Page 8 of Break the Ice

All things I’ve felt before.

By the time I make it to my office, I’m stumbling. The door snaps shut, and I lean against the wall to close my eyes and breathe slower through my nose.

It won’t be happening again. I won’t be getting sidetracked this time around.

Nothing is going to stop me. Nothing is going to ruin my career.

Damn sure nobody will.

“Not even you, Alpha,” I scoff with a begrudging shake of my head. “You want to play hard? I’ll always play harder.”

4. Rafe

“You’re nothing but talk, Golding!” Phil Morasca grunts. He skirts past other players on the ice, finding his way in for a block. He’s aggressive, using his size to his advantage, throwing an elbow to my ribs as discreetly as possible.

But as dirty as Morasca wants to play, I can best him on my worst day.

I outmaneuver him with a flick of my stick. The puck’s kept squarely in my possession. Before he can even blink twice, I’ve escaped his block attempt. I dribble fast down the middle. Too quick for anybody else to come close to posing a threat. At the last possible second, as everybody playing defense descends on me, I roof it.

The puck arcs across the ice and bounces into the net.

I throw up my fist while Morasca and his band of losers toss down their sticks and pout like overgrown toddlers.

My teammates bump shoulders with me or skate past giving nods of approval.

Coach Oates blows his whistle and barks at us to gather around for a quick recap of practice.

I’m grinning as I skate past a red-faced Morasca and head toward where Coach and the others are syncing up.

Coach’s spiel lasts for about five minutes. The second it’s over, everybody’s headed to the locker room. I’m called back by him.

“I saw that jab he gave you on the floor,” he says the moment we’re alone. “You handled it well. I was surprised.”

“If you think this means I’ll never knock Morasca’s teeth out, don’t get your hopes up. It’s still on the table, Coach.”

Displeasure crinkles in the lines bracketing his eyes. He resembles a walrus, his face pudgy and his mustache thick as fur. He doesn’t like when I refuse to get with the program; he’s fully on board with the image overhaul of our team.

And with the revamp of me and my persona in the public eye.

It’s inconvenient that Morasca and I hate each other’s guts. It means drama for the Wolves, which doesn’t translate well if you’re trying to scrub clean your image.

Coach is delusional if he thinks it’ll ever get better—Morasca was a contributing factor in Colt’s career-ending MCL injury a couple years back. He was supposed to be warding off any advances of the opposing team. Instead, he left Colt open and then slammed into him when a brawl broke out.

Morasca claimed it was an accident. Hawk and management believed him.

At the time, with hope of recovery, Colt said he was sure it was the truth. It was just some accident in the middle of a melee. Not a targeted attack.

He won’t speak on it today. He won’t say if he still believes that lie.

But I never have. I’ve seen the sabotage for what it is. The Goldings have always been a threat. Greatness passed on from a father to his two sons.

Morasca playing dirty doesn’t bother me. I’ll humiliate him on and off the ice and enjoy every minute of it.

Coach strokes his furry mustache, then changes the subject. “How’d the talk with Hawk go?”

“About as expected.”

“The rumors are worrying him. I’ve told him they’re just that. Rumors.”