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Chapter six

Liam

S ilence fucks with me.

It makes my thoughts too loud, too sharp.

I hunch at the edge of the Cyclones locker room bench, taping my stick like it’s the only thing keeping me from coming apart.

The air reeks of wet gear and old adrenaline—familiar and sharp, like the inside of a warzone.

The others file in, laughing, chirping, slapping tape onto blades like we didn’t just get our asses handed to us by a team with half our payroll during a pre-season scrimmage game last night.

That’s the thing about Florida hockey—everyone expects sunshine and easy wins.

They forget this is still the NHL. No matter how shiny the palm trees outside look, blood still hits the ice here.

I’m here for a fresh start. But the ghosts packed themselves into my gear bag.

“Yo, you Liam Steele?” a voice pipes up—new guy, loud voice, not a clue.

I nod without looking up.

“Coach Dawson’s prodigy, right? He ever teach you that no-look pass from the Canyon showcase reel? That shit went viral back in high school. Guy’s a legend.”

There it is. Again. Dawson. Always fucking Dawson.

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but it always is. “Yeah. He taught me things.”

That’s one way to put it.

The guy—Brody—grins and plops down beside me, lacing up like we’re best friends now. “Man, it must’ve been sick working with him up close. He came to one of my travel games when I was fifteen. Changed everything for me. You’re lucky.”

Lucky. Right.

I used to be like him once.

Before I knew better.

Before Dawson’s praise started feeling more like a leash.

I remember the first time he told me I owed him everything. I’d been benched for a minor slip-up—a turnover he should’ve taken the blame for—but instead, he lit me up in front of the staff. Later, he told me it was “character-building.” That I should thank him for it.

I thought it was normal. Part of earning your stripes.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I realized being mentored by Dawson Reid meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize in the mirror. Someone who smiled on command, agreed with the coach, and buried his instincts deep down.

Coach Dawson gave me a shot when nobody else would.

That’s true. But the thing about lifelines?

Sometimes they come wrapped in chains. I was fourteen, hungry, and desperate to get out of a town where dreams died under fluorescent lights and pawn shop signs.

Dawson didn’t just coach me—he carved me.

Molding me into his version of “promising,” sanding off the edges that made me me.

“Guess so,” I mutter, but my fingers are curling into fists without permission.

The locker room’s noise fades into a low buzz. I’m not mad at Brody. Not really. He doesn’t know better. But every time someone name-drops Dawson like he’s fucking Zeus, it feels like they’re putting me in his shadow all over again. Like I didn’t claw my way here on my own terms.

The smell hits first—fresh tape, gear oil, and that sharp bite of newly zambonied ice. Training camp ice is different. Faster. Unforgiving. Every stride matters when coaches are watching with clipboards, deciding who makes the roster and who gets sent down to the minors.

I ain’t no fucking marionette. And I’m not his trophy.

I lace my skates with the same ritual I’ve had since juniors—left foot first, three loops, pull tight, check the blade alignment. Superstition or science, doesn’t matter. What matters is that first push off the boards, feeling the edge bite into the ice like coming home.

The door swings open. Coach strides in, followed by Aiden, who tosses a clipboard onto the bench like he’s already pissed. Probably is. Practice starts in ten.

We hit the ice. The Cyclones’ arena is colder than most—some malfunction with the rink chillers that never got fixed, according to the equipment manager. Makes Florida feel like Canada for a few hours, at least. I kind of like it. Keeps my senses sharp.

We skate drills. Tight corners. Stretch passes.

Transition work. Nothing fancy, but it’s hard and fast and real, and for a while, I lose myself in the rhythm of it all.

This team’s raw—half the roster made up of trades and rookies.

Expansion team energy with veteran-level pressure.

But we’ve got potential. Underneath the chaos, there’s talent.

And I want to be the one to anchor it.

Until Brody opens his mouth again.

“I’m trying that Dawson redirect pass today,” he yells, laughing as he swings wide for the puck. “Bet it works better on this ice!”

My chest tightens. My vision narrows. I know it’s nothing. Just a kid admiring a coach who changed his life. But my legs move before my brain can stop them.

The second I saw his blade dig into the crease, something in me snapped.

My skates cut across the ice like razors. Wind rushed past my ears. All the noise around me dulled into one sharp point—him.

I barreled in like a missile.

The boards cracked as our bodies collide. My shoulder clips him, and we both go down. Brody’s grunt hit my chest almost as hard as I hit him—a controlled detonation of all the shit I’ve been burying since day one.

The puck skitters away, forgotten.

Coach’s whistle shrieks.

“Steele! Off the ice!”

I push up, breathing hard. The world feels tilted. Coach’s expression is unreadable. Aiden’s glare is not.

“Bench. Now.”

“No chance that was—”

Aiden gives me one look, the kind that says shut up or pack your shit. I don’t fight it. I just skate off, the friction of the blades hissing like steam venting from a pipe about to burst.

I drop onto the bench and grip my stick like it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking. My heart is pounding in my throat.

What the hell is wrong with me?

This isn’t who I want to be. Not anymore. But I can’t shake this bitterness gnawing under my ribs. I’m sick of being someone else’s success story. Coach Dawson molded me into a player good enough to stand here. But the price? I had to cut away parts of myself to fit the frame he wanted.

The NHL isn’t just about talent. It’s politics. Perception. Leverage. And yeah, I’ve jumped teams for bigger contracts. Who the fuck wouldn’t, with a window this short and a body that breaks so easily?

But guys like Brody? They think it’s all handed to me. That I’m here because I was someone’s golden boy.

They don’t know the nights I iced bruises he gave me ‘for discipline.’ The meals I skipped because proving loyalty meant staying at the gym until midnight. The injuries I played through to “toughen up. Dawson raised winners. But he didn’t raise men.

I’m trying to be my own man now.But this team—this league—it doesn’t give a damn who you used to be. It only cares what you are on the ice today.

And today, I lost control. And that can’t fucking happen again.

I can’t afford it. Not with eyes watching. Not with Griffin circling like a goddamn vulture, just waiting for me to fuck up so he can sink his claws in and rip me apart.

Which is bullshit, of course.Because that’s all I am.

A walking target since day one in the Reapers locker room.

Griffin made sure of that. That smug bastard didn’t just make it hard—he made it hell.

Elbows to the ribs in drills, ‘accidental’ slashes in scrimmage.

Always in the coach’s ear. Always flashing that fake team-first bullshit like he wasn’t the one throwing elbows the second the cameras turned.

He didn’t lead. He played politics. Knew who to kiss up to, who to throw under the bus.

Me? I was easy to bury. I didn’t smile. I didn’t schmooze. I just played hard—and maybe too fucking hard when it came to him.

If I ever see him again…I’ll take the damn fine. I’ll take the suspension.I want his face against the boards and my fist breaking every smug tooth in his fucking mouth.

Because I’m done bleeding for assholes like him.

Give me a locker room, no cameras, no suits watching, and I’d pin him to the wall and crack his ribs one by one—just for sport.

But this league doesn’t run on justice. It runs on stats, silence, and reputation.

So I swallow it down and keep skating.

Even when it burns.

Even when it rots me out from the inside.

Because the second I let it slip—let him get in my head—I lose my grip. that’s cracked more than once under pressure. And when I lose control, I become the version of me they all warned about.

But that night...

Jesus.

That fucking masked night, I owned control.

Still. I wasn’t always like this.

There was one night—just one—where I didn’t feel caged. Where I didn’t feel like the guy holding it all together by a thread.

Her.

That masked little minx with her parted lips and fuck-me eyes.

Sandy blonde hair, glossy like some retro pin-up from a dirty dream. Tits I could lose myself in. Body soft and perfect and trembling under mine like she was made to be wrecked—by me, for me.

She gave it up without question. Gave me every inch of her. Let me take control, own her, ruin her.

And fuck, I did.

Had her bent and breathless, soaking the sheets, begging with those pretty gasps and scratching down my back like she needed me in her bones.

No games. No drama. Just raw, filthy need.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t the problem.

I was the fix.

I want that feeling back.

Not because of a mentor.

Not because of a fucking contract.

But because for one night, I got to be the version of me I actually liked.

And I’ll claw my way back to that—even if I have to bleed for it.