Page 13

"I’m going to kill him."

James Adler

Miles mentioned he left for the arena early to practice, so I walk there alone, stopping by Rise & Grind on the way. I couldn’t come in yesterday because I had back-to-back meetings for new endorsement deals on top of practice, so I’m making up for it today.

To my utmost pleasure, Elizabeth is working this morning, and she’s even more beautiful than ever. She’s wearing a white sweater under her work apron that makes her look like an angel.

“Top of the m orning to you, Elizabeth,” I call out, stepping through the door.

As usual, she answers with her famous eye roll. “Hi, Clark Kent,” she says, withholding a smile. “The usual?”

“Yes please.”

Seeing that they got some new Raptors merch in, I sit down at one of the tables and start signing posters, something we all like to do when we stop by. “Didn’t miss me too much yesterday?” I ask, unable to shut up in front of her. “I know it must be hard after spending such an awesome day with me.”

I’m pathetic, I know. How much clearer can I make it that I was the one thinking about her all day long?

“I managed,” she says, pressing her red lips together before bringing my coffee to the table. As she sets it down, the sleeve of her sweater pulls back, revealing a red hand print around her wrist.

“What’s that?” I immediately ask, blood rushing to my head.

“What?” She frowns, then hides her wrist. “Oh, nothing.”

I fly to my feet, almost knocking over the table in the process. “Elizabeth, what happened to your wrist?”

She swallows hard, not daring to look me in the eye. “It’s fine. I—”

“It was that douche Rogers. Wasn’t it?” There’s a buzzing in my ears as the only explanation hits me.

When she closes her eyes, I know I’m right. All the blood seems to drain from my body, and so many thoughts race through my head. “I’m going to kill him,” I say, but it comes out strangled.

“No!” She glances up at me as she places a hand on my chest. “Please don’t get all worked up. It’s really nothing. I’m fine.”

I close my eyes to calm myself, taking a small breath. “You’re fine? Look at your wrist, Beth! He hurt you. That prick. I’m—”

“Please, James. I don’t want you getting in trouble,” she pleads again, her voice desperate.

She takes my hand, and her soft touch is all it takes to ground me in the moment.

We gaze into each other’s eyes, and I’ve never been so close to kissing her.

It’s all I want right now. To hold her tight, be there for her.

To protect her and kiss those beautiful red lips.

I exhale slowly, and she squeezes my hand. “Please.”

I stay silent, focusing on her touch.

“Besides,” she adds, “I kicked him in the nuts, and I don’t think he’ll be coming back for seconds.”

That almost makes me smile. My girl.

She looks down at our hands, stil l clasped together. Then, she clears her throat before slipping her hand away. “Just promise me you won’t go and find him, okay?”

I swallow hard before grabbing my cup of coffee. “I’d better get to practice.”

“James, promise me,” she begs me again, her eyes earnest.

I release a sigh. “Fine. I won’t.”

Her shoulders sag in relief, and I get out of the shop, my blood still simmering.

I don’t need to go and find that bastard. We’re playing them tonight.

I work myself extra hard during conditioning, not leaving a single muscle unprepared. I start with my upper body, then do some leg presses before we all skate onto the ice for practice.

“All right, let’s do some one-on-one drills,” Coach Martin bellows, and we all get into position. I’m up against Miles, and Hawthorne takes on Johnson.

“We got this, bro,” Hawthorne says, bumping my fist.

We start the play, and I go hard at it.

As I skate back, I’m a little out of breath.

“What’s up, dude?” Miles sa ys. “That was intense.”

I shrug. “Just making the play.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Miles and Hawthorne exchanging a look, but I keep my eyes ahead as I skate to the bench to grab some water.

“That was great, Adler,” Coach calls out, clasping his hands together before addressing the rest of the team.

“That’s what I want to see. Be hungry for the puck, gentlemen.

Good job,” he adds again, slapping my back as I return to center ice.

“Let’s go again. You can sit this one out, Adler.

Lap around, and Beaumont will take your spot. ”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good to go again.”

He frowns slightly, then nods. “Okay, one more time, then.”

We skate back into position, and Hawthorne glances at me. “Are you all right, man?”

I don’t reply, instead carving my skates into the ice the second Coach blows the whistle.

After a few more rounds, we finish the on-ice training and walk back to the locker room, but Hawthorne, Beaumont, and Miles won’t stop pestering me.

“You’re sure you’re okay, bro?” Miles prods, and I sigh.

“How many times do I have to tell you guys? I’m great.”

“You don’t seem great,” Haw thorne says, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, dude,” Beaumont chimes in, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t even brag after that play back there. That’s not normal.”

I scoff. “It’s just practice. Who cares?”

They all burst into laughter. “Um, excuse me?” Hawthorne says, arching an eyebrow. “You’re always the first to rub it in our faces when you outperform us at practice.”

I guess I do that sometimes. Instead of answering, I just groan and continue back to the locker room.

“Okay. Now I’m positive something is wrong. You sound like Wally, man,” Hawthorne’s deep voice shouts behind me.

“Hey! What did I bloody do now?” grumbles Wilcott, who’s sitting in his stall, taking his gear off.

“We’re worried about Adler. He’s gone to the dark side with you,” Beaumont says, throwing his gloves on the bench.

“Is it because we’re playing the Sharks tonight?” Miles asks. At the mention of our rival team, I ball my fists at my sides. “We’ve got this, bro,” he continues. “We’ll get them.”

I nod. “We have to.”

“We will,” Hawthorne agrees, slapping my back as he passes my stall.

When I step back into the arena for tonight’s game, I’m as tense as ever.

The guys have stopped bothering me, attributing my heightened focus to the first derby of the season.

Their explanation isn’t wrong, but also not entirely true.

I haven’t told them the other, bigger reason because I want Rogers to myself, and I know they’d be in his face the second he hits the ice if they knew what happened.

Plus, we can’t have everyone in the penalty box at once.

The first blow is mine. They can follow suit.

“Soccer time?” Beaumont asks, juggling the ball as he enters the gym.

I nod as I step off the treadmill. Playing with the guys before a game is a great way to both release the pressure and pass the time while keeping our bodies warm.

I trail after him until we meet up with Hawthorne, Kraz, Johnson, Miles, and Wally.

It’s pretty much the only pre-game activity Wilcott participates in.

He usually just broods in silence on the bench.

But he’s British, and soccer is in his blood.

His brother is actually a top player in the UK—or so I’ve heard.

The game we play is called two-touch, which means the ball can be touched only twice before it hits the ground. We play in a circle, and the first person who loses the ball is out. We keep going until only one man remains.

After that, it’s time to hop back on the bikes and strap on our pre-game skates.

I do a short on-ice practice, because every time I skate toward the center of the ice, I see Rogers’ stupid smug face, and I want to bash it with my stick.

I try to focus on completing my warm-ups and keep my gaze on my side of the rink.

We retreat to the locker rooms, and one of the guys plays the “Baby Shark” tune on his phone. Everyone relaxes and laughs, singing along and changing the lyrics to how bad we’re going to beat them tonight—most of the new lyrics being my invention.

I’m still getting weird looks from Miles and Hawthorne, so I plaster a smile on my face and focus on getting ready.

Finally, Coach strides into the locker room, and we all sit down.

“Let’s do this, gentlemen. You know it’s going to be a tough one.

Just be tougher, okay? They’re going to get physical.

Be ready for that, and keep yourselves out of the box.

Do everything right, but don’t leave them any room to breathe.

Short but intense shifts. Let’s go,” he adds, and everyone claps as he hands me the starting lineup sheet.

I stand up and walk to the center of the room, my tone serious. “Okay, boys. We got Beaumont, Cap, and me in the front, Johnson and Miles in the back, and Wally kicking in the cage. Let’s do this.”