Page 12

Chapter twelve

Colton: The Trap

T he gravel crunched under my boots as I walked up to the barn, the air still carrying that damp, dewy, early morning chill.

I heard one of the latches squeak—had to be kennel three. That one always stuck a little. A few seconds later, I heard Brutus slurp from the water trough. Called it.

Shortly after, I heard the four dogs in the south run, losing their minds in unison. Janice must’ve just arrived. She was the only one who brought treats in her front pocket. The dogs knew it before she even stepped inside.

Tessa gave me a nod from across the paddock, surprised but trying not to show it.

I walked over. "Morning," I said.

She arched a brow. "You're early. Twice in one week. Should we be worried?"

I smirked. "Maybe I'm just trying to keep you on your toes."

"Or maybe you're getting attached," she said, but her voice was more amused than accusatory.

I didn’t answer that. Just nodded once and kept walking.

Inside, a few regular volunteers were already at work—prepping food, walking the dogs, checking supplies. One woman was trying to juggle a water bowl and a container of food while unlatching a kennel door with her elbow.

I stepped over and caught the latch before it slipped. "Got it. You good?"

She looked up, grateful. "Thanks. Some of these doors have a mind of their own."

"Tell me about it," I said, letting the door swing open gently.

I spotted Janice near the end of the aisle, kneeling by the south run. "I knew you were here," I said as I walked up. "The dogs basically held a press conference."

She grinned without looking up. "Don’t tell Riley. She already scolded me about the extra treats."

"Your secret’s safe with me."

She chuckled. "You’re not bad at this, you know."

"Don’t let that get out either," I said, then offered a quick wave to the rest of the group and turned toward the reading nook beside the kennels.

A kid—maybe eight or nine— caught my attention. He sat cross-legged, unmoving, with a book in his lap. The laminated sign above the little bench read: "Reading Builds Trust. Take a seat, read a story, make a friend."

But the boy wasn't reading.

His eyes were wide, glued to the far end of the barn where two bigger dogs were barking up a storm. His fingers clutched the book to his chest like it was a shield.

I crouched beside him. "Hey. You okay?"

He gave a tiny shrug but didn't answer.

I nodded toward the page. "I used to get nervous around dogs, too. Especially the loud ones. But they're just excited. It's how they say good morning. Like barking is their version of waving."

Still nothing.

"What are you reading?"

He looked up, then down at the book again. "It's about a dog who gets adopted."

"That's a good one. You know, if you read it out loud, the dogs might listen. They like voices. Makes them feel like someone sees them."

He hesitated, then opened to the first page. I stayed there quietly while he started to read. His voice was soft, a little shaky, but he kept going.

I didn't do much—just sat with him, nodded when he glanced at me, and smiled when one of the calmer dogs came and lay down nearby.

I liked who I was at the moment.

***

A few hours and one quick shower later, I was back in my other world. Both noisy. I'd traded the sound of dogs barking and kennel doors clanging for coaches barking drills and pucks hitting the boards.

The locker room hummed with pre-skate energy, chatter bouncing off the tunnel walls as players geared up for ice time. I strapped on my helmet and headed out, nodding at a couple of the guys.

Coop gave me a fist bump as I passed. "Scrimmage today. Don't pull anything dramatic. We've got Big-Club brass in the stands."

"Relax, I'm here to play nice."

He smirked. "Since when?"

"Since I woke up this morning."

Coop snorted. "Guess miracles really do happen before 9 a.m."

“Jerk”

“Hey, just keeping it real,” Coop smirked.

I dropped my duffel, then lowered my voice. "You know half the rookies are gonna overhandle the puck and shoot themselves in the foot trying to stand out."

That’s generous," he muttered. "More like they’ll grip their sticks so tight they forget how to play."

"Let’s round up the guys before the coaches come out. Get some easy puck work going. Grab them and get them over to the penalty box."

"Coop’s Therapy Corner?"

"Better than Coop’s Clean-Up Crew," I said, jerking my chin toward a pair of rookies pacing by the whiteboard.

He laughed and clapped his gloves. "Alright, you heard the man. Bring it in, everyone. Now."

When the coaches came out, we were already gliding through tight passing drills. I stuck with Mason and one of the newer defensemen, giving feedback without barking. Just enough to keep things clean.

Coach pushed through the tunnel with a whistle between his teeth and a raised eyebrow.

"You running my practice now, Hayes?"

I shrugged. "These kids wanted to show me some new tricks."

The guys around us snorted. Even the coaches cracked a smile.

"Well, don’t wear yourselves out before the whistle. Brass wants a show, not a stretcher."

"Noted," Coop called back. "But no promises."

The drill naturally dissolved into line assignments. I fell in with Coop, Mason, and Tanner for the first scrimmage shift. We rotated fast and clean, short shifts, tight control, no showboating.

Mason looked my way before the face-off—just a glance, like he was checking with me before the puck dropped. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Coop mirrored my coverage call on the fly. I didn’t need to ask twice. They weren’t just tolerating me out here. I was their teammate.

Halfway through the second period of the scrimmage, I took a quick shot that should've gone in but didn't. It hit Finn’s knee pad instead. I’d angled it just right—or so I thought. One twitch from him at the last second, and my shot was blocked.

After the whistle, Finn skated up beside me, pulling off his glove. "You twitch your elbow right before the release," he said, breath misting in the cold air. "It's like a neon sign for where you're going."

I blinked. "You serious?"

"Every time," he said. "You want to break the habit? We can work on it tomorrow before practice."

I hesitated for half a second. Then I nodded. "Yeah. That would be great."

His eyebrows lifted. "Didn't think you'd be the type to say yes."

"Didn't think I was either," I laughed.

After scrimmage, I caught sight of one of the rookies—Mason—sitting at the end of the bench, helmet off, jaw tight. He'd fumbled a pass that gave the other team a breakaway goal. Lost us the game.

Most of the guys were shrugging it off, already headed for the showers. But he looked like he'd just cost us a playoff spot.

I skated over. "Grab your stick."

He looked up. "What?"

"Let's run the drill again. You feed me. We keep at it until it clicks."

Mason's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

Coop skated by, grinning. "Hell yeah. I'm in, too. Let's go."

We stayed out there an extra twenty minutes. By the end, Mason's passes were crisper. The tightness in his shoulders had eased, his focus sharper, his confidence back.

And mine? A little more earned.

Coach clapped me on the shoulder as I stepped off the ice. "Press wants a word when you're done," he said, jerking his thumb toward the far hallway. "Nothing serious. Just be civil."

I nodded, peeled off my helmet, and headed toward the locker room, already bracing for the usual questions about rehab, redemption, and whatever storyline they were recycling this week.

I stepped out into the corridor, towel slung around my neck and hair still damp from the shower.

The Hallway was quiet. No reporters. No boom mics. Just the hum of vending machines and the Zamboni. I almost let out a breath.

Maybe they bailed.

And that's when she stepped out from behind the corner

Vanessa.

Leaning against the wall like she owned it, arms crossed, polished and camera-ready in a slate-gray blazer and that practiced smile that always meant trouble.

"Colton," she said, all warmth and charm. "You've been busy."

I blinked. "You following the beat now, or just stalking me for fun?"

She laughed lightly, stepping closer. "Relax. No ambushes. Just checking in. You've made quite the impression—everyone at the rescue is singing your praises. And the way you handled that rookie out there? Very… unexpected."

I crossed my arms, a damp shirt sticking to my back. "People change."

"Apparently," she said, tilting her head. "You're starting to make me believe it's not just PR."

She pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen like she was scrolling. "That clip of you helping the kid at the rescue? It's making the rounds. Sweet, but not too polished. Very authentic."

She always led with praise. That was her tell—the sugar before the setup.

I didn't answer. Not yet. Because I knew better than to trust Vanessa when she smiled like that. But part of me hoped—for once—she meant it.

She shifted her weight to one heel, perfectly still otherwise, her phone dangling loosely in one hand like she had nowhere urgent to be. I stayed quiet, hands in my pockets now, shoulders angled slightly toward her without realizing it.

She didn't press.

"This place suits you," she said, voice lower now. "Silver Ridge. The rescue. The team. You look... settled."

I gave a half-smile. "Maybe I am."

"I mean it." She looked up at me and studied me like she hadn't already written half the article. "There's something different about you. You're not coasting anymore. You're participating. Showing up."

I felt something tight unwind in my chest. Her words shouldn't matter—but damn if they didn't.

"That's the goal," I said. "Showing up. Not just for the cameras. For real."

She nodded slowly. "And people are noticing. The staff at the rescue, your teammates… even the coaches."

I pressed my back to the cinderblock wall. "They've given me more than I deserve. I'm just trying not to screw it up."

Vanessa tucked her phone into her blazer pocket and folded her arms. "It must be... complicated. Balancing all this with everything going on behind the scenes. Your dad. The land. The optics."

I stiffened, just slightly, but kept my voice even. "It's not complicated. I've got my own opinion. And it doesn't match his."

She raised her brows like she was intrigued. "That can't be easy. Especially with the land being what it is. High-value. Tied to the team. And the rescue, of course."

I shrugged. Tried to stay casual. "There's more to life than flipping lots and maximizing shareholder ROI. Some things are worth protecting."

It sounded fine. Reasonable. Even commendable.

But her smile shifted—just enough.

"That's a strong statement," she said lightly, pulling her phone back out, eyes flicking to the screen for a beat too long.

"That's not a statement," I said. "That's just how I feel."

She didn't answer right away. Just smiled and slipped the phone back in. "You're making yourself clear."

I pushed off the wall, the weight settling back in my chest. I'd said too much. Worse, I'd meant it.

And I had no idea how she was going to use it.

***

The clock read 6:41—not early, not late. I scratched the back of my neck, blinked through the sleep, and pushed out of bed.

In the kitchen, I reached for the blender. Protein powder, frozen bananas, almond butter—whatever looked vaguely healthy went in. The pulse button stuck slightly before kicking in. Sunlight caught the rim of a glass left to dry on the counter.

It was peaceful.

I poured the smoothie into the glass and took a long sip, mentally running through the day—gym, practice, maybe stopping by the rescue if Riley was around.

That's when I heard it.

Thwap.

Something hit my front door with a heavy smack. Not a knock. Not a package. Something flatter. Slapped, not placed.

I walked over, still holding the glass, and pulled open the door.

A folded copy of the Silver Ridge Tribune sat on the doormat like a challenge.

That’s weird. I don't subscribe to the paper.

I stared at it for half a second, then bent down and picked it up.

Front page.

Hometown Hero or Heir Gone Rogue? Colton Hayes Distances Himself From Father's Controversial Development Plan.

Beneath the headline, a pull quote in bold: "The town's better off without my father messing with it." I never said that. Not like that. But it didn’t matter now.

The smoothie in my hand suddenly tasted like chalk. I set it down slowly, the article already burning into my memory.

She used me—or maybe I just made it that easy.

Either way, the damage was done.