Page 6

Chapter 5

Zach

The locker room’s fluorescent lights buzz faintly, a sound most people filter out, but it grates on my nerves. I toss my equipment bag onto the bench and grab a banana from the cooler along with the bottle of honey. It’s a routine, a superstition before every game. Each time I do it, it's like I’m tricking fate into giving me strength and not letting my body fall apart on me.

Not that it ever works. But routines don’t have to make sense.

"Give it." Viktor holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers.

I hand the banana over, and he peels it, then takes a bite and swallows. He gives it back and smiles. “All good.”

After taking it, I add some honey, then take a bite, chewing slowly. Coach Harper walks past, his eyes lingering on Viktor before shooting me a cold glare. Viktor's hand tightens on his water bottle, his nostrils flaring .

My chest constricts at the exchange, and I swallow past the lump growing in my throat. Maybe Viktor won't abandon me like my mother did. He's stuck around this long, even after what happened with the whips.

But I hate how much I've come to rely on him.

The persistent fuck just kept inserting himself into every aspect of my life until I gave up fighting him. He decided we were friends back in Juniors, and that was that.

It’s the same way he pushed to become my personal taste tester after the whole sour milk incident. Of course, my friend’s obsessive tendencies kicked in when he couldn’t understand why I kept drinking it. Eventually I relented—after twenty-four hours—because it was either tell him I can’t taste shit or smother him with a fucking pillow. Killing him wasn’t a good idea when he’s a once-in-a-lifetime goalie.

People would look for him, including his family.

And his mom used to be an assassin and may still be. Not that I should know this, but Viktor decided to share the information for some reason.

Too bad Mrs. Novotny actually likes Coach Harper. Wish she kind of didn’t. Would make it easier for him to disappear and stop fucking interfering with our friendship .

But who the fuck’s going to watch out for me next year? Ottawa’s a whole new team with a new set of people, which means no one I trust.

Finishing my banana and honey, I get up to throw out the peel and find Henneman watching us from across the room. I bare my teeth at the freshman, and he quickly looks away, grabbing his helmet before walking out.

Jackson laughs from the stall next to mine. "You know he could probably break you in half if he wanted to, right? Kid's built like a brick house."

I snort. Physical size means nothing. I learned that lesson early—strength isn't just about muscle mass.

"What's your problem with him anyway?" Connor asks as he tapes his stick.

"Don't trust him."

Jackson chuckles. “You don’t trust anyone.”

He’s right.

But Alexei understood my . . . quirks. He discovered my weaknesses on the ice but never used them against me.

Thought Viktor told him my secret, but neither would confirm how Alexei figured out I had problems with my hand or reading body language. Unlike his cousin, he never pushed to understand where or why I had those weaknesses. Instead, he adapted, and we worked together.

But Henneman? He's hiding something. He’s too skittish, too hypervigilant in the locker room.

After throwing out the peel, I walk back to my stall and start putting on my equipment. “Novy, you check the feed?”

Wanting to fuck with Merci, I left him alone all day yesterday, letting the isolation fuck with his head—the same way it fucked with mine when I sat in the hospital room after each surgery. Besides the video feed in the warehouse, Viktor also placed a guard on the premises.

And injected him with a tracker, just in case Merci manages to escape.

“Yup.”

After attaching the Velcro strap of my elbow pad, I turn and look at him. “And?”

He chuckles, the sound dark and amused. "Pissed himself. Having your hands bound behind you makes bathroom breaks difficult, I guess."

“He deserves it.” But even as I speak the words, something grinds in my chest, an unfamiliar sensation that makes me want to tear my skin off.

It’s not guilt, that feeling I recognize, even if it takes me weeks to name it. But something about how Merci flinched in the warehouse—the thought of someone else hurting him—got under my skin.

I want to be the one who punishes him.

Me.

No one else should touch him .

It makes no sense. These feelings . . . they’re a waste. Inefficient. Unnecessary.

After pulling on my jersey, I grab my helmet and stick.

"Do you really want to kill him?" Jackson’s voice is low, careful as he tightens his laces.

"Yes."

"Then why haven't you already?"

Instead of answering, I walk out of the locker room and head to the ice, where everything makes sense. The rules are clear, the objectives defined. No messy emotions to interpret, no social cues to miss.

I tap my stick once against the boards as I step onto the ice, the ritual grounding me. Nothing else matters when I’m out here.

Only winning.

I focus on warming up as my teammates step onto the ice. My left hand is stiffer today. I flex my fingers inside my glove, trying to work out the perpetual numbness. While I can't always feel the stick properly, I’ve compensated by relying more on positioning. But some days, I wonder if that’ll be enough in the NHL.

Being drafted is one thing, but how long can I hide my limitations? And if the organization finds out, what then?

My molars grind. This is Merci’s fucking fault.

He added to the obstacles I already had .

I don’t know much about how my brain got injured—don’t remember a thing. But the insular cortex damage was static, and the long-term effects were stable.

Luckily, reading plays in hockey often relies more on recognizing patterns, anticipating movements, and understanding the flow of the game rather than interpreting subtle emotional cues.

And while the insular cortex is involved in social and emotional processing, other brain areas, like the visual cortex and motor planning regions, play a more significant role in athletic performance and spatial awareness.

So, my father hired trainers to help me recognize specific formations, opponent tendencies, and positional play. He also made them sign NDAs to keep their mouth shut about my medical condition.

And since all this happened when I was a kid, I had the time to develop strong muscle memory and instinctual responses to certain plays. My weaknesses with reading body language or anticipating less obvious cues appeared like normal shortcomings any player might have.

But the damage Merci caused . . .

I take a harder-than-necessary slapshot at Viktor.

He glares at me through the cage of his mask. “What the fuck? ”

I huff and skate away, getting ready for the game to begin.

Coach Nieminen goes over strategy, reminding us of Penn State’s weaknesses. As if we don’t already know how to take these guys down. Of course, Coach Harper has Henneman and I out there together.

Fucking hate dealing with this inconsistent freshman. Why the hell did they even accept him onto the team? Shaking my head, I skate to line up for the puck drop.

The first period is fast, both teams trading possession. Henneman fumbles a pass, leaving our zone exposed. I have to lay a harder hit than necessary to break up the play, driving my shoulder into the opposing forward's chest.

On our way back to the bench, I shove my stick between his skates, sending Henneman sprawling. He scrambles to his feet, his face and neck bright red. "What the hell is your problem!"

I don't respond. Don't even look at him while I take my seat on the bench as Jackson weaves through defenders arrogantly, faking out their defensemen before sending the puck past the goalie in one smooth move.

The horn blares and the scoreboard lights up.

The next shift, Penn State wins the face-off. Their winger tries to cut inside, but I step up and crush him into the boards. The hit is clean, yet he doesn't like it. As soon as the puck is cleared, he drops his gloves .

I don't hesitate.

My first punch catches him in the jaw, snapping his head back. His helmet comes off. The second hit splits his lip. He gets in a shot to my ribs, but I barely feel it. One of the advantages of my fucked-up nervous system—pain doesn't register the same way, if at all.

By the time the refs pull me off, his face is a bloody mess. They escort me to the penalty box, and I sit, breathing hard.

I lift my hands and check my fingers. They look okay. No noticeable swelling or displacement.

Good.

The door to the penalty box opens, and the attendant hands me a water bottle. I take it without looking at him, my eyes fixed on the ice where Henneman gives up another odd-man rush.

"You're welcome," the attendant mutters.

I blink, realizing I should have said something. But the words don't always come naturally, don't form the way they should. Not until someone reminds me. “Thanks.”

The two minutes drag by, and when I'm finally released, I skate back to the bench just as the whistle blows, someone having shot the puck over the plexiglass and into the stands.

Viktor skates my way, his usual knowing look. "Hand okay? "

"It’s fine."

On the bench, I grab my gloves from Jackson and put them back on. A few minutes later, I hop over the boards for my next shift. Henneman fumbles another pass, and I grit my teeth. He's a liability out there. But Coach Harper keeps playing him, giving him chances he hasn't earned.

When the third period starts, we’re in the offensive zone. Connor passes to me and the moment the puck hits the tape on my blade, I fire off a shot. The puck soars past the goalie and into the top corner.

The goal horn blares.

“Fuck yeah!” Connor slaps my back as we skate back to center ice. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

We finish the game with a 3-1 win, and I catch the proud look Coach Harper gives Viktor before schooling his features. Must be nice having someone look at you like that.

Jackson groans as he skates up to me. "Ride home’s going to be a bitch. Why do we even have to play games when the rest of the school is on winter break?”

Viktor joins us. “Bet the ride is going to be at least six hours. Fucking New York traffic.”

He’s not wrong. Took us four and a half hours to get here. But going back through the city is always a shitshow.

I turn to Jackson. “Blackwell waiting for you? ”

He smirks. “Sure is. Serpents played Harvard yesterday. Home game too.”

Connor nudges my shoulder. “Wanna come out later?”

"Got other plans."

But I clench my jaw as I scan his face. My friend is still alone in his house, and while I can’t comprehend his body language, the fact that he has any in the first place is all I need to know something’s off.

He shrugs. “Merci?”

I nod.

“Need help?”

“No.” It comes out harsh, but the idea of Connor laying a finger on my stepbrother makes me want to rip my teammate’s throat out.

Maybe Viktor's right. Maybe there's something else going on that my fucked-up brain can't process.

But it doesn't matter because I’ll finally get my revenge tonight, and Merci Laurent will cease to exist.