Page 15

FOURTEEN

ELIO

Easton sent a text to the team’s group chat, calling an evening meeting two days after the drills.

I stared at it like it might rearrange itself if I blinked long enough.

No one said anything about it in the locker room, but I could feel the tension under the surface. Everyone knew what it was about. Everyone knew the captaincy vote was coming.

This was supposed to be the payoff. The prize. Everything I’d worked for. And yet, all I felt was hollow.

I went through the motions. I ate, I trained, I sat in lectures and took notes I wouldn’t remember. My body moved, but my mind was locked somewhere else, stuck between the echo of Jaxon’s voice telling me he couldn’t do this anymore and Easton’s eyes burning through me like I was already beyond saving.

Maybe I was.

I thought if I just won the vote, if I pushed hard enough, if I earned it the way Coach Webber and everyone else expected, it would patch up the cracks. Prove something. Make it all worth it.

But it wouldn’t.

It never would.

The empty space where Jaxon used to be made sure of that.

I kept hearing him. Not his words. Not exactly. Just the way he said my name, like he was reaching for me one last time before letting go. And I let him. I didn’t even fight for him.

Because deep down, I thought maybe he was right.

I didn’t deserve him. I didn’t deserve Easton, either.

I sat in the rink bleachers after hours, watching the Zamboni make slow circles, leaving the ice spotless and fresh like it hadn’t held a thousand ugly moments. I envied it.

I could almost hear our laughter here—me and Easton, two dumb kids who only cared about sticks and pucks and winning. He’d trusted me back then. Enough to let me in on every stupid thought in his head.

I repaid him by walking away the second it got hard.

The worst part? I knew why. Not because I hated him. Not because I hated Jaxon.

Because I hated me.

Every ugly part of me that looked at Jaxon like he hung the stars. Every part that envied Easton for being brave enough to survive Kyle and be himself. I couldn’t handle it. So I did what I always did. I wrecked everything.

And now I was sitting here, clutching the one thing I thought could fix it—a shot at the captaincy—knowing it wouldn’t change a thing.

If I got it, I’d be nothing but a king of ruins.

And maybe Jaxon was gone for good, but Easton? He was still here. Barely. But here.

I could still fix something.

If I had the guts.

Patrick knew it, too. A cold stare met me in our room when I returned. He had just dragged his pants on and was picking out a T-shirt when I stepped inside. “Nice work out there, buddy,” he said.

“Not you, too,” I said.

He snorted. “Why not? What I say makes no difference at all.”

I gritted my teeth. “Are you going out?”

“Yeah,” he said, sliding away from the nuclear waste of all the arguments. “I’m meeting this nerd about some project he’s doing.”

“Since when are you an academic?” I asked.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and fixed the hem over the pants. “Me? I’m not. The nerd is.”

“Mm. And he needs your professional opinion,” I teased, but my heart wasn’t in it.

“Apparently so,” Patrick said. “Well, he needs something, anyway.”

We shared a moment of silence, suffocating and deafening, and Patrick looked into my eyes. “Is something wrong, Elio?”

The words of denial almost launched themselves out of my mouth, but I stopped them. I stood still, waiting for Patrick to understand everything without having to say a word. He waited for me to speak. In the end, I gave a small, silent nod.

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

The words felt like a blade dragging down my chest. That was what a friend said. The example was enough to knock me out. “Nothing,” I said. “It’ll all be okay in the end.”

“Seriously,” Patrick said. “I’ll call the nerd. I’ll cancel it. Do you need…?”

“No, man,” I grunted, loving Patrick for the offer and hating him for setting the example. “Go advise your nerd.”

Once Patrick left, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. This would be the ideal moment to go over to Jaxon’s place, but the thought itself filled me with shame and regret.

The next day dragged like an old injury. I went through it half-awake, watching my teammates with a sharp kind of envy. Most of them joked, shoved, and laughed too loudly like nothing in the world could touch them. They hadn’t wrecked what mattered. They hadn’t burned their friends for sport.

I kept expecting Easton to pull me aside, to take another swing, verbal or otherwise, but he didn’t. He kept it professional—cold, efficient, and painfully calm.

That stung worse than if he’d laid me out on the ice.

When the time came, I stood outside the bar for ten full minutes, watching the warm glow of the neon sign buzz against the cold Chicago night. The team was already inside. I could see the silhouettes of them moving through the window—Easton in the corner, arms crossed, already commanding the space like the captain he’d always been.

Mine for the taking.

If I wanted to.

My hands stayed shoved deep in my pockets. My legs wouldn’t move.

I knew exactly what I’d done.

I knew exactly what kind of person I was if I walked in there and took it.

And still, I stood there, waiting for some invisible sign, some mercy I didn’t deserve.

The door creaked open as two players stumbled out laughing, brushing past me without a second glance.

I could turn around. Right now. I could walk until the cold bit through my bones and not stop.

Instead, I stepped inside.

The glances that came my way were split neatly in half. Those that welcomed the sight and those that did not. The one who was torn, sitting on Easton’s left side, was Patrick. Not that his vote was in any question. He was Easton’s guy through and through, but it was clear that he hated being in the middle.

I brought a chair over to the joined tables and sat on the opposite side of Easton. He looked into my eyes with that intense green gaze that almost made me look away.

The air in the bar felt tighter than usual, like the walls were inching closer with every breath.

No one spoke for a beat too long. The only thing keeping the place from collapsing into silence was the distant hum of music bleeding from the jukebox.

Easton cleared his throat. “Thanks for showing up,” he said, eyes never leaving me. “I know this isn’t exactly formal, but Coach wanted us to handle this ourselves.” He gestured around the table, like we weren’t all painfully aware of what we were here for.

A few nods. A few wary glances.

Patrick kept his eyes on his beer.

Easton’s jaw worked as he said, “I suppose we better get it over with.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “No,” he murmured to Easton. “Say something. Make a pitch.”

Easton blinked slowly and looked around the tables. Enough guys were listening intently to the silence that settled that it prompted Easton to speak. He pressed his lips into a tight line, then nodded. “I’ve been distracted. You all know that. And you know the reason. It’s not the way I would have handled things if I could change the past, but it’s the most honest thing I can tell you. Even now, life’s a mess, but I’ve never been more determined to be part of this team. Whatever the outcome of the vote, I’m still one of you. We’re the Steel Saints. We’re going to work together and turn our luck around. We’re going to go out there and win what’s ours. And…” He hesitated just long enough that I noticed it. “Whoever leads us there will be worthy of it because the majority will choose him. It’s up to you to make that choice.”

I was surprised to see that this wasn’t a fake display of modesty. Easton spoke resolutely, though it pained him. I folded my hands into fists. Even now, he was a better man than me.

I clenched my jaw and stared at the table, at the knots and scratches worn into the wood like scars. My pulse throbbed hard in my throat.

I could almost hear Coach O’Brien’s voice in my head— you’ve earned it . My father’s voice wasn’t far behind— don’t screw this up . My own voice, hoarse and small— it won’t fix anything .

It didn’t matter how much I wanted the C. No, that wasn’t right. I didn’t even want it anymore. I wanted what I used to have with Easton. I wanted the sound of our laughter echoing in the empty rink. I wanted to turn to Patrick and not see him trying to mask disappointment behind beer foam.

I wanted Jaxon, but that was already gone. I’d made sure of that.

I shifted in my seat, trying to swallow down the panic creeping up my spine. Every second, it got harder to breathe, like the walls were caving in and no one else could see it.

They were all looking at me now. Waiting.

Waiting for me to fight. To prove I wanted it bad enough. To say I’d do whatever it took, even if it meant putting Easton’s face in the dirt one more time.

But all I could think about was the look in Easton’s eyes the day I left him standing in the locker room. The day I flinched. The day I let my fear call the shots.

I had a choice then.

I had a choice now.

And the silence was dragging.

“No?” Easton said. “Well, let’s get it over with, then.” He looked around the tables. “Show of hands, everyone? I propose to remain the captain. All in favor?” He lifted his hand. Patrick’s shot up a heartbeat later. Several other guys lifted their hands, bringing the tally close to half. A few others squirmed uncertainly, and a few more remained resolutely still. Those guys believed in me. Lennox believed in me, leaning back in his chair and holding his hands in his lap.

And why? Why did I still have sway among the Saints? I was a good player, but I was a shitty person and a terrible friend. Was that the kind of example I would lead with? I would be no better than Kyle, who shot himself up with drugs and let nothing stand in his way of toppling Easton.

Before I could stop it—before I could even fully commit to it—my hand rose high above my head. The words crashed out of me, sharp and uneven. “I’m out.”

Easton’s brows lifted. Patrick’s head jerked up. Someone down the table muttered, “What?” but I barely registered it.

My throat burned. I forced myself to meet Easton’s gaze.

“I’m withdrawing,” I said, quieter. “I’m not running.”

“Why?” Easton asked, his face pulled tight between surprise and a suspicious frown.

“And you all should give Easton your vote,” I said, my voice firm and resolute. “I’ve had enough of this division, guys. I added to it more than enough to lose your trust if you think about it. And I say I’m done with it. Easton has led us through the best and the worst of it. He’s led us when his life was falling apart. Who else could say they would have done any better? I sure can’t. And my life is not that rosy, either.” I swallowed, my throat tight. “I’ve been a terrible friend, a hypocrite, and a destructive force in everything that was ever good. So, vote for Easton. I’m not the right guy for this job, but he fucking is.”

A ripple of confusion crossed the table. A few surprised glances. Some relief, maybe. But I only saw Easton.

And for the first time in weeks, I thought maybe he saw me, too.

Hands rose high, one after the other, and the collective sigh of relief felt as tangible as the wooden table before me. Lennox nodded, lifting his hand with everyone else, following me even now.

It happened quietly.

No one clapped. No one cheered. It wasn’t that kind of win.

But the air shifted.

The tension that had wrapped itself around the team like a vise seemed to loosen. Shoulders relaxed. Jaws unclenched. Even the ones who hadn’t said a word all night looked relieved, like someone had finally cracked open a window.

Patrick let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. His shoulders slumped forward, but there was something softer in the set of his mouth when he glanced at me. Not pity. Not disappointment. Just gratitude. Like maybe, for the first time, I’d done something decent.

Lennox shifted in his chair, nodding to himself as if confirming something. One of the rookies, who’d barely dared to look at me all semester, gave Easton a faint, relieved smile.

I sat there, watching the subtle change wash through the room like a tide, and realized—they weren’t just voting for Easton. They were breathing easier without me in the way.

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t jealous. I was just tired.

Easton hadn’t moved yet. He kept staring at me like he couldn’t decide if he should thank me, punch me, or both.

I didn’t give him the chance.

I pushed back my chair, scraping the legs against the sticky floor. The noise pulled everyone’s attention, but I didn’t care.

I stood, nodded once to no one in particular, and walked out.

No applause. No congratulations. No reassurances.

Just the bar door swinging shut behind me.

And for the first time, I didn’t flinch from the cold when it hit me.

I took it. Every sharp breath of it. Because if I was going to freeze tonight, I deserved to feel every second of it.

The cold cut through me as soon as I stepped outside. I shoved my hands into my pockets and started walking without thinking about where I was going. I didn’t need a destination. I just needed to move.

The sharp scrape of a chair followed a moment later, and then the bar door creaked open behind me. Heavy boots on the sidewalk. I didn’t have to look to know it was Patrick.

He didn’t say anything. Just fell into step beside me, like we were heading to the gym after practice, like this was routine.

I kept walking.

So did he.

Block after block of silence stretched between us. No cars passed, no late-night drunks stumbled out of bars. Just the sound of our footsteps and the wind curling through the empty streets.

It should’ve been unbearable.

But somehow, it wasn’t.

I stared straight ahead, pretending not to care, but every step with him beside me felt like a reminder. He didn’t owe me this. He could’ve stayed in the bar. He could’ve ignored me altogether.

But he didn’t.

We reached the corner where we’d usually split—me toward the dorms, him toward wherever the hell else—but he kept walking with me.

No speech. No lecture. No questions.

Just quiet.

It hit harder than anything anyone could’ve said.

I clenched my jaw, forcing the lump in my throat down where it belonged. If he noticed, he didn’t call me on it.

When we finally reached the dorms, he gave me the smallest nod. Not approval. Not forgiveness. Just— I’m here .

Then he turned and walked off without another word.

And for the first time in months, I felt it.

Not forgiven.

But not alone.