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NINE

ELIO

Jaxon was in my thoughts for the rest of the day. I would have stayed with him had I not had lectures so early and drills in the afternoon. But before I left Jaxon’s room, he had pulled me by my hand to follow him into the bed, where we lay for nearly an hour, listening to each other’s breaths and heartbeats, arms wrapped around each other.

I carried his scent in my lungs, his eyes in my memory, and proof of his touch on my skin. On each arm, small bruises had emerged where Jaxon had held me the hardest the night before.

The day was a haze of lectures, a lunch break, a trip to the library, and a return to my dorm, where Patrick would ask me where I had spent the night. As luck would have it, Patrick wasn’t in the room when I returned, so I avoided an awkward conversation. My options were limited: I could be a liar or a hypocrite. And I didn’t think I could go on lying. Not after last night.

I got ready for practice. The preparation didn’t require much in terms of packing, but I needed to take a quiet moment and think before showing up in the locker room. Easton was back, although bruised and battered, and he was on a mission to conquer the Saints again. Part of me was glad. Being given the captaincy that had been his for so long would mean we would never go back to how things had been.

Not that I thought we could go back to that easy friendship of a few months ago before all this mess had started. But something like that? Maybe. If stars aligned, there was a chance we could stop being enemies.

I walked into the bathroom, washed my face with cold water, ran my fingers through my curls, and looked into the mirror. What had Jaxon told me? It had taken him weeks to think it and months to whisper it aloud.

“Alright, you coward,” I said to the mirror. “You’ve been running away from this for too long.” I swallowed the tightening knot in my throat. I had lied, tricked, pretended, and hurt the people I cared the most about because of this. Enough was enough.

My chest rose and fell. Say it , I thought. Say the goddamn word . My teeth clenched, and my muscles tensed. Then, the door banged open and shut, and Patrick’s voice came through. “Elio?”

“In here,” I said, relief washing over me, shame following close behind. I turned away from the mirror without looking at myself again and left the bathroom.

Patrick’s icy blue eyes flicked to me as I stepped out. “Rough night?” A trace of amusement made his voice quiver.

“Not particularly, no,” I said. “Are we going?”

He picked up his backpack and tossed it over his shoulder. “Ready when you are.”

I lifted the duffel off the floor and followed Patrick out.

“I thought I’d be the only one running late,” he said. “Where were you last night?” His tone was cheerful and suggestive as if he’d tacked on a good, old “you dawg.”

“Nowhere,” I said. “I mean, not exactly nowhere.”

Patrick laughed.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“At Easton’s place,” Patrick said. “I met his boyfriend.” He glanced at me as if to see my reaction. He gave a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t want to give that guy a reason to dislike me.”

“Oh yeah?”

Patrick laughed a little louder, probably remembering some inside joke. Envy flashed through me before I could rein it in. How had I gambled it all so stupidly? But Patrick’s laughter faded. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s a tough bastard, that guy. I think he likes me.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“Oh, you know, he didn’t put me into a woodchopper by the end of the night,” Patrick said. “I can’t blame him for not trusting us. We’re Easton’s teammates. We should have realized something was going on when he first showed up with bruises.”

The guilt I felt was like an ice cube inside my stomach.

“See, Kyle had been threatening he would out East for a while,” Patrick said. “So much so that it ate Easton from the inside. He told me everything last night.”

“Should you be telling me?” I asked.

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You should hear it.”

I bit my tongue. If I were ever going to fix any of the messes I had made, letting Patrick speak his mind was the first step to take. “Go on.”

Patrick measured me for a moment, then nodded. “Kyle’s been leading Easton on from a distance since they moved in together, and Easton tried to kiss him a few months back, but Kyle got all upset and told him he was gonna pay for it. And between you and me, Kyle is so loudly and obnoxiously straight that I don’t believe it for a second, but that’s just me. Normally, I think if a guy has nothing to hide, he’s got nothing to prove.”

That was a slap right across my face, but I ignored it. It was always the loudest motherfuckers who had the biggest secrets. “What happened then?”

“Kyle moved out, but he didn’t stop hinting at what happened,” Patrick said. “Of course, he could have been flirting, but Easton didn’t take that chance. The two had a big fight in the locker room. And wouldn’t you know it? Some hooded guys found Easton in an alley and beat the shit out of him.” Patrick looked ready to spit. “Jace found him and helped him to the apartment, watched out for him the next few weeks, and dug up the truth about that janitor who was selling testosterone to Kyle. Don’t ask me how. I didn’t want to know what sort of connection Jace has in the city. I’m nothing if I’m not clean.” He slowed down as we reached the parking lot in front of the rink. He turned to me and looked into my eyes. “We let our friend be blackmailed, tormented, and beaten up, Elio.”

I frowned and returned his intense gaze. “We didn’t know what was happening.”

“That’s the point,” Patrick said. “We should have known. Real friends would have known.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “We need to be part of each other’s lives. Or not be friends at all. Got it?”

I swallowed and blinked, nodding a little. “I don’t think he wants to be friends with me anymore.” And if he doesn’t, I’ve only got myself to blame . Patrick wasn’t someone who mediated fights lightly. If anything, he was the one causing the mess out on the ice. So, if he could keep his temper in check, it was telling just how important this was.

“If he doesn’t, it can’t be for the lack of trying. Alright?” Patrick patted my shoulder and gestured at the rink. “We’re gonna be screwed now.”

We weren’t. The team was dressed and ready to leave, but it wasn’t uncommon for a straggler or two to do a quick change while everyone waited. We were both fast, stripping down and putting on our protective gear before lacing the skates and filing with everyone into the hallway and to the ice. On our way there, I reminded myself of Jaxon. I thought of just how brave he was.

I hurried after Easton as we skated onto the ice. “Hey,” I called, but Coach Webber was behind us and clearing his throat.

Easton looked into my eyes for a single heartbeat, face expressionless, and moved his gaze to Coach Webber.

“Guys,” called Assistant Coach O’Brien. “A little attention, please.”

We all fell silent as Coach Webber straightened his back and squared his shoulders, his hands held together behind his back like an army general’s. “Boys, we’ve had one hell of a start to a season,” he said, his voice pitched to carry. “We’re all aware of the division in the team. We’re aware of how the uncertainty is affecting you. It’s regrettable, to say the least.”

A quiet murmur of agreement passed through all of us.

“But I must commend you,” Coach Webber said, raising his voice. “Despite the lack of meetings, strategizing, or team building, you are all here. Despite the loss of trust, you are here. Despite the backhanded attempts at sowing discord among you, you show up.”

This time, the agreement was louder and followed by the clicking of the sticks against the cold, hard surface of the rink.

“I’m not here pretending to have the perfect solutions,” Coach Webber continued, his voice falling lower and demanding our full attention. “Not yet, at least. But the day is coming when decisions will be made. And it’s my hope that you, as a strong and united team, will make those decisions.” He let his words settle between us all before continuing. “This morning, the results of Kyle Hobbs’ drug test returned positive. His removal from the team was immediate, and his scholarship was revoked.”

Chatter swelled around me.

Coach Webber lifted his hands, palms open and facing us, and waved for silence. We obeyed. “Don’t let this betrayal be a stain on the entire team, boys. Those were the choices of a single individual who never truly understood this sport. For if he had, he would not have acted this way. Hockey is tough. Physical prowess matters. Endurance, strength, and speed are the crucial factors that make the difference when the time is running out and the tension is building. But those are not the winning features of the sport. It’s the team spirit. It’s the bonds that are forged on the ice and off. It’s the unity and the single-mindedness of an entire cohort of young people, their ability to know wordlessly what others think. And it’s these that we need to build. Nobody doubts your strength or your speed. Those were the traits we measured before we extended you the invitation to be a Steel Saint.”

I cast my gaze toward Easton, but a few teammates were between us, and Easton’s eyes were focused on the coach. If he felt me looking, he didn’t acknowledge it. It made my stomach feel hollow, my heart longing to be near Jaxon, the only comfort I could think of.

“I urge you to take this moment to reflect. Consider where your values are, what you want out of this, and what you are willing to give to the team. Hard as it is, consider your place among the Steel Saints. It’s my hope that you will all come tomorrow with a refreshed ambition to play as a team and win as a team. Use this moment to create a fresh start.”

The clicking of the sticks against the ice was louder now, and a few cheers rose from the crowd.

Coach Webber nodded firmly, then let the wave of applause and cheers die down before outlining the strategy for the day. We were splitting into teams and simulating a game. One group was padded with strong offensive players, which meant Easton would lead, and Patrick would be on his team. The other group was composed of defensive players, and the de facto captaincy of that team was handed to me. Even though I was a winger, my style was never as aggressive as Patrick’s, so the split made total sense. I only hated how it pitted me against Easton in all the obvious ways.

Underneath it all, this was still a competition, and I wasn’t able to back down just like that. I hated that I was the better fit for the job; I hated that it was Easton’s title I had to fight for; and most of all, I hated that he would never forgive me if I took it. But then, Coach Webber had just instructed us to put the team above ourselves, and I meant to do precisely that.

The whistle blew, and the scrimmage was on. I gripped my stick tighter, watching as Easton’s team spread out, aggressive from the start. Patrick bolted for the puck as our center met him at the face-off. The clash of sticks sent vibrations up my arms as I dug in, skating hard. Patrick won possession, flicking the puck to Easton, who wasted no time charging up the ice.

I shadowed him, cutting through the blue line with quick strides. He deked left, then right, trying to shake me, but I stayed with him, using my stick to cut off his angles. He faked a shot—baiting me into reacting—then spun on his blades, firing a pass across the ice.

Their left winger caught it cleanly, racing toward our goal. I pivoted and sprinted back, my skates slicing through the ice. Our defenseman met him at the crease, but he dished the puck off—right back to Easton, who was already winding up.

I lunged.

The puck soared past my outstretched stick, a bullet toward the net.

Rhett, our goalie, dropped into the butterfly stance, pads sealed against the ice. The shot slammed into his blocker, bouncing high. Patrick was there, swinging for the rebound.

I barreled into him, shoulder to shoulder, shoving him off-balance just enough to make his shot miss. He cursed, but I was already spinning away, controlling the loose puck, my heart hammering in my chest.

Time to push back.

I launched forward, skating hard along the boards, dodging an oncoming defender. A quick pass to Lennox, my center, who tapped it back without hesitation. We had a break.

Easton was ahead, already predicting my move. His body tensed, waiting for me to commit to a side. I leaned left, then exploded right, slipping past him by inches. I felt his presence behind me, the heat of our grudges burning just as fiercely as the speed of my skates.

Crossing into the offensive zone, I saw Dillon cutting toward the net. I snapped a pass across the ice. He caught it—barely—before getting slammed into the boards by Patrick. The puck skittered loose.

Easton reached for it.

I beat him to it.

For a moment, it was just us, sticks battling, shoulders jostling, skates carving into the ice.

I knew his tells—his twitch before a burst of speed, the microsecond delay before he tried to lift a stick. I used it, sweeping the puck away and snapping a wrist shot toward the goal.

The goalie flinched—too late.

The puck struck the back of the net with a satisfying clank.

A cheer rang from my team, stick taps echoing across the rink.

Easton exhaled sharply, eyes glossing over mine. He refused to acknowledge me. As if I weren’t even real. The competitive spirit was never too far, but Easton’s stubborn clinging onto our fights was only stoking the fire.

Game on.