Page 29

Chapter Twenty-Five

Cole

T he puck slams into the glass with a dull, hollow thunk that vibrates through my chest plate as I move instinctively. My blades cut into the ice with a sharp screech that echoes off the rafters. My thighs burn with the effort, muscles screaming, but my mind is syrup-slow—smeared at the edges like a photograph left out in the rain.

My special red pills run through my system, dulling the static in my head but warping everything else just enough to keep me calm and focused. I move on autopilot, but my thoughts feel distant and just out of reach, surrounded by a thick cottony fog.

Some would say that being around kids and taking pills is a bad idea, but I have everything under control. I didn’t take nearly as many as usual, and I just needed something to take the edge off and keep the pain at bay until after this charity skate session. I’ve been taking part in other more personal activities in the bedroom with M&M, giving my shoulder an extra workout. Not that I’m complaining, but it makes being on the ice a little more challenging. Hence the pills.

“Yo, Hendrix! That backcheck was slower than my grandma!”

The corner of my mouth twitches as I coast to a stop, spraying up a hiss of snow as I swivel toward the boards. “Marcus, I swear to God?—”

The kid beams from his perch on a battered crate like he is holding court. His helmet sits askew, curls bursting out beneath it. His small form is engulfed in a Timberwolves hoodie someone had pulled over his head at some point. Spending time with these kids hasn’t been as bad as I thought. Maybe taking part in this will be more fun than punishment.

“I’m just saying,” Marcus said, projecting like a showman. “You skate like a guy with a girl on his mind.”

The chirps ripple down the line as all my teammates snort. One of the assistant coaches even half chokes on his whistle. I run my gloved hand across the back of my neck, now slick with sweat. The cold air in the rink isn’t reaching me anymore because of all the layers, or potentially the pills. Who even knows anymore?

“One more word and you’re carrying my gear,” I mutter, trying hard not to laugh. If he weren’t giving me such a hard time, he might be funny.

“Joke’s on you! I already carry Logan’s. Got seniority, baby!” Marcus cackles, everyone joining in for a few moments before it goes completely silent.

It feels like the pressure drops in the rink as everyone slides in front of me, a wall of muscle protecting me from something coming my way. No one is speaking. It’s as if all the sound has been sucked out of the arena, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.

Someone steps onto the ice from the far tunnel. No jersey. No number. Just a scuffed hoodie, old gloves, and a strut built in defiance. The man moves with a practiced arrogance, blades whining as they scratch against the surface. And I’d know that person anywhere.

Jensen. I swore to that fucker I’d kill him the next time I saw him. I guess he was dumb enough to give me a chance. My grip on my stick flexes tight, knuckles popping beneath my gloves, as I push off before my brain can catch up, carving a hard arc toward center ice. Instead of the blinding rage I felt last time I was within a few feet of him, I feel like I’m underwater, although that rage flickers beneath the surface—a hot, coiled thing in my gut that the drugs couldn’t quite smother.

“What are you doing here?”

Jensen smirks, his stick shaking in his hand, his eyes bloodshot. “Relax. Just came to say hi. Stretch my legs.”

“You’re not welcome here, and you know that.”

“Aww. That hurts. I thought we were a family, Hendrix. You know, bled for each other and all that bullshit.”

“You bled for your own ego.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Jensen leans closer, breath sour with coffee and bitterness. “Because I ‘crossed a line.’ That it? Or is it 'cause you’re shacking up with the coach’s daughter and need me out of the way?”

My nostrils flare as the world around me blurs, my vision narrowing down to just Jensen—his smirk, his voice, the acidic hiss of each word slithering into my ears.

“Don’t go anywhere near her, Jensen. I warned you,” I growl, the words falling out like iron weights.

Jensen’s grin widens. “Why not? You clearly don’t mind mixing business with pleasure.”

I glide close enough to feel the heat of his skin. A distorted thrumming fills my ears that slowly changes into a low roar. My fist curls around my stick, itching to do some damage to anything. Everything in me wants to lash out, to break something, to break someone. But I don’t, because if I do, I won’t be able to stop.

“You need to walk away,” I say, my voice deadly calm, leaving no room for argument.

“Tell me how long you think you can hide it. The guys have been talking, and Coach isn’t blind. It's only a matter of time before he notices the way she looks at you. You think he won’t kill your contract if he finds out you’ve been?—”

A whistle splits the air, sharp and piercing. Assistant coaches and security guards surge onto the ice, boots thudding over hard rubber. One of them barks Jensen’s name, loud enough to echo, snapping the spell.

Jensen leans back with a lazy shrug, tapping my shin pads with his stick like they were old friends before skating away, tossing Marcus a wink as he passes.

Security meets him at the blue line, but I don’t move, choosing to stay rooted at center ice, sweat chilling along my spine as my blood is molten lava beneath my skin. All my senses feel like they are in overdrive. The edge of my vision buzzes. Every sound is too sharp, blades cutting the ice too loud, and the lights are too white.

“You gonna hit him next time?” Sammy bumps my shoulder, motioning toward where Jensen disappeared into the tunnel.

“Thinking about it.”

“Well… he smells like old socks,” Marcus mutters, coming to a stop between Sammy and me. “Just saying.”

I tap his helmet with the knuckles on my free hand before pushing off toward the next drill. My skates dig into the ice, anchoring me in place, as my lungs drag in the air like it hurts to breathe.

The drugs keep me calm, but the fire burning in my veins underneath? That is all me.

* * *

The hallway behind the rink is cold and dim, buzzing with the low flicker of overhead fluorescents. The place where sound echoes in your skull. My skates clack too loudly on the concrete, the toe guards dragging. Sweat slides down my spine beneath the pads. Everything feels tight. Wrong. Like my skin’s shrinking by the second. I know I shouldn’t be here, but the look in her eyes drew me closer. Michele was terrified at seeing Jensen on the ice, but I’m not sure whether it was for him or me.

I throw my helmet against the wall before I even see her. It hits with a sharp crack, louder than it should be, and my hands are already shaking. I press my palms to my thighs and try to breathe, but my lungs feel like they’re shrinking in my chest.

Everything feels like too much. Too loud. Too white. Too painful. I want to crawl out of my skin.

The edge I’ve been riding since before warmups is fraying fast. The pill—just one—did its job for a while. I could think straight, move without panic clenching my gut. But now the calm feels like a lie. My muscles twitch, and my vision swims for half a second before snapping back into focus with a vengeance. Everything’s sharp. Too sharp. It all feels like I’m spiraling out of control, until I see Michele.

She’s standing just beyond the doorway near the training room, framed in shadow and fluorescent light. She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me with those wide, steady eyes. Michele is still in her Timberwolves polo and joggers, her dark waves pulled into a bun that's falling apart. Her cheeks are flushed, and the soft lines of her hips and thighs fill out her clothes in a way that always makes something in me clench. She’s all softness and strength. And right now, she’s looking at me like she’s not sure which part of me is going to snap next.

“Hey. You okay?” she asks gently, stepping closer.

My laugh is too sharp. Too dry. “Peachy.”

“Cole.”

“I said I’m fine.” The words come out hard, punched through clenched teeth. My voice comes out sharper than I mean. It bounces off the walls. Pure fear flashes in her eyes for just a second, but it lands like a punch in my gut. I’ve scared her. Not much, but enough. Enough for shame to crawl down the back of my neck like a sweat that won’t dry.

She doesn’t step back. Of course, she doesn’t. Michele never backs away. “I saw what happened out there.”

I scoff, turning toward the window. “Yeah? You saw him running his fucking mouth again. Did you see how everyone just stood there to watch the show, waiting for me to lose my cool?”

“You kept your cool.”

I shake my head. “No. I didn’t.”

She’s right behind me now, her hand grazing my elbow in a featherlight touch. Her fingers trail down my arm until they find my wrist, wrapping around it. Her grip is steady, solid, and real when everything around me feels warped and wrong, but she’s here, steady as gravity.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I murmur, my eyes clenching tightly shut.

The feel of her thumb moving in a slow circle over my skin helps soothe the rage inside me. It doesn’t go away completely, but it's a little more controllable than before. My chest feels hollowed out. My arms twitch with the urge to throw something, break something. My brain’s moving too fast to keep up with, and I still can’t string two clear thoughts together. I feel like I’m on the edge of something sharp, and if I move the wrong way, I’ll tumble straight into it.

“You didn’t,” she responds, but there’s a tremor in her voice she doesn’t quite hide.

She’s quiet for a second before taking a step closer, her chest brushing my arm, her hand finding the curve of my back. Her body is warm and soft and grounded against mine. I sink into it without meaning to. My hand finds her waist, fingers spreading across the dip just above her hip. I grip her like she’s the only thing tethering me to the ground. And maybe she is.

“You don’t have to hold it all together,” she whispers.

“I do. If I don’t, I don’t know what’s underneath,” I rasp as she leans her forehead against my shoulder.

“Then let me hold some of it.”

My jaw aches from clenching. I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in—clean and warm and real. I don’t deserve this, but I hold on anyway because for one more minute, I need to believe I’m still someone she wants to be close to.

* * *

I told Michele to head back to the ice before me, not wanting to bring any more attention to us than necessary, and she agreed. Neither of us wants to be on the receiving end of her dad’s ire just yet.

Her footsteps fade down the corridor while I stay back in the shadows. With Michele’s help and another pill, the numbness I’ve been chasing since Jensen appeared on the ice has returned, but I’m still a little jumpy.

I check my watch, satisfied that Michele has been gone long enough not to raise suspicion, when I hear an unfamiliar voice.

“Hey.”

A familiar-looking kid—maybe twelve or thirteen—stands near the vending machine with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. I squint, trying to place his face, when it comes to me. His name is Darius. I met him when Beau dragged me to the lacrosse game a few weeks ago. He must be here for the event and somehow got turned around in the tunnels.

“How long were you standing there?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“Long enough. Don’t worry, I didn’t get a picture or anything.”

Easier said than done. If it were a reporter or a puck bunny, there are things I have that they may want. I have nothing to offer a teenager. I have a feeling a signed jersey is of no interest to him, based on the amount of Timberwolves swag he’s wearing.

“You lost?”

“Nope.” A sharp and knowing grin spreads across his face. “I was following Michele. She said she was going to the bathroom, but I assumed she was coming to see you since she ducked out around the same time as your confrontation on the ice.”

I rub my hand down his face. “Look, this needs to stay between us, okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Thing is… I could keep it a secret. If I had a reason.”

“A reason?” I question, my eyes narrowing, wanting to know what he could want.

“Yeah.” Darius shrugs, the picture of calm. “I don’t have a big brother, but I want one.”

“Can you just share with your friend? He’s Beau’s little brother, right?”

“Beau has a big mouth. I need someone who can keep a secret and won’t rat me out to my aunt.”

“You have a point there, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Beau said Coach Mercer is making you take part in the program. So I figured you could be my big brother.”

“Aren’t I already doing enough at this event?” I mutter, knowing that I should stay far away from these kids. I’m having a hard enough time keeping myself together. I shouldn’t be responsible for anyone else.

“You wanna keep dating Coach’s daughter or not?”

“This is extortion, kid.” I huff a breath—half a laugh, half in defeat.

“I’d like to think of it as a win-win situation,” Darius replies proudly. “Besides, I’m an excellent secret keeper. I also make the best cover to take your girl out on a date.”

Darius has a point. Hanging out with him kills two birds with one stone. I can get Coach Mercer off my back about my punishment, and I can go out with my girl in public without worrying about it getting back to her dad.

“You got yourself a deal, kid.” I offer him my hand, and he shakes it with a firm nod.

“You can get my information from Beau. You are to pick me up tomorrow afternoon at 1:00 p.m. We’re going to go to the arcade that also happens to be right next to a nice French bistro my aunt loves. We can hang out for a few hours. You supply the money for the games.”

Darius smirks at me one final time before disappearing down the hallway,

I got caught sneaking around with the coach’s daughter, and now I have a twelve-year-old extorting me for brotherly bonding. This has been one hell of a day.