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Chapter twenty-four

Daxton

“ T rayton King, you’re fucking dead,” Cope shouts, his voice echoing off the metal lockers. As soon as I stepped into the room, there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone clutched tightly in his hands. The moment our eyes locked, his expression twisted into one of pure rage, like a storm brewing behind his eyes. He leaped up, demanding answers with a relentless barrage of questions. I stuck to my story about tripping on a curb, but he pressed harder, wanting to know the street and why there wasn’t a streetlight. His interrogation was relentless, and he knew my shaky answers would eventually trip me up.

And they did. I fumbled, saying I fell while walking away from campus when I’d earlier claimed it happened on my way back. My head pounded like a drum, each beat syncing with the chaos unraveling around me. All I craved was the comfort of my bed, but Cope had other plans. He had a theory cemented in his mind from the start—even during his intense questioning— that Trayton was responsible for it. I joked that if hockey didn’t work out, Cope would make a damn good detective, but now his relentless hunt seemed less amusing.

He refused to listen when I insisted Trayton wasn’t involved. He dismissed my pleas not to confront him, ignoring every word I uttered. And now here we are, in the locker room, where Kal is struggling to restrain Cope, and Brayden has his hands full, holding back a bewildered and justifiably pissed-off Trayton.

“I haven’t fucking touched Daxton. What are you talking about?” Trayton shouts, confused and angry. Becketts, another team player, has his arms wrapped around Cope to help Kal as they both struggle to keep him from lunging forward. Trayton’s denial isn’t entirely true, but we will ignore that.

I step into the room, and the chatter instantly dies as all eyes widen and a collective gasp fills the air. “It wasn’t Trayton, I told you,” I yell, pushing my way in front of Cope, who is practically vibrating with anger—his face red and his fists clenched in fury. “I swear on everything, it wasn’t him, Cope,” I plead, trying to stay steady despite the chaos. Cope’s eyes never leave me, and gradually, his rigid stance slumps into one of utter defeat. I take a quick, regretful glance at Trayton, and with a soft, almost inaudible sorry, I notice that his eyes have ignited with an intensity far worse than before.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he demands, frowning as confusion mixes with irritation.

I answer in a low, pained voice, “I fell.”

“Bullshit!” both Trayton and Cope roar out in unison. I let out a heavy sigh while massaging my eyebrow, the movement sending a sharp, shooting pain through my nose.

Before any more words can be exchanged, the door crashes open, and Coach storms out of his office. His booming voice cuts through the tension, “What the fuck is going on in here?” His fierce gaze lands on me as he barks, “King, Rivers, office now.”

Almost immediately, Trayton shouts defensively, “It wasn’t me! For fuck’s sake!” As we trudge toward the office, Trayton abruptly seizes my arm. His grip is desperate and rough as he hisses, “I don’t care what you tell Coach, but you’re going to tell me who did this to you. If it’s Grady, he’s dead.” His simmering anger is palpable as he flings open the office door.

Inside, I launch into an explanation, “Look, it wasn’t Trayton. It wasn’t anyone—I was out on my morning walk and didn’t see the curb. I fell.”

“Bullshit,” Coach snaps immediately.

Trayton quickly adds his own frustrated input. “That’s what I said.” Coach fixes Trayton with a piercing, disapproving look that forces Trayton to raise his hands in reluctant surrender. “Coach, it was not me, I swear. I’d at least do it where you couldn’t see it,” Trayton stammers.

I want to come back with a sharp remark about my throat, but I bite my tongue.

“King,” Coach growls.

Feeling increasingly frustrated, I vent, “What is it with everyone today? Can’t people just believe me? I fell—that’s all there is to it!” My frustration simmers beneath the surface, though I hold it in because the truth isn’t something anyone needs to know.

After scrutinizing me for a long, tense moment, Coach finally concedes, “Fine. But any more marks on you, Rivers, and I’ll be getting the dean involved.” I merely nod in agreement.

As Trayton and I leave the office, he pulls me aside into the shadows, away from prying eyes.

“Talk,” he commands

I cross my arms and ask, “Why do you care?”

With a dismissive shrug, he replies, “I don’t—just curious.” But the storm brewing in his eyes tells me it’s more than that. I wonder, does he really care?

Of course he doesn’t.

“Just leave it,” I snap, pushing past him with determination, afraid that if I linger, I’ll spill everything and start treating him like my knight in shining armor. Because he’s not. Trayton would be in the front row of the Watching Daxton Fall movie, grinning at every stumble.

I need to remember that.

I spent the entire training session watching them run drills, completely unproductive, not a single line sketched on my pad. My mind was tangled with what Marley had said. At the time, I didn’t fully process his words or even feel the panic because I was too worried about everyone else’s reactions. But now, sitting alone, the panic has settled deep in my bones. When I call, you answer.

I know what Marley wants. He wants me to jump through hoops for him again, to move back into that cramped trailer. But that’s not happening. I can’t return to that life, not after experiencing a glimpse of this one. My gaze drifts to Trayton, focused intently on the puck, weaving it skillfully between obstacles. Not after knowing what Trayton King tastes like.

If I went back to that trailer, Trayton wouldn’t come near me again. But who says he will anyway?

Damn.

Before I know it, the training session ends, and I find myself trudging back to the locker room, mentally preparing to interview Brayden. My stomach churns with dread; I remember the way he looked at me earlier, his eyes filled with knowing.

He knows. Of course he does.

Once the players finish showering and leave, I set up the camera in our usual spot near the window, where the light is decent, though the backdrop remains a stark, blank wall typical of locker rooms.

“So, what—”

“It was Marley, wasn’t it?” Brayden cuts me off, his eyes soft with concern. His expression hits me like a wave of nostalgia, reminding me of moments with my best friend Bex, and just like with Bex, I can’t bring myself to lie. I nod, the truth heavy in the small space between us.

“Has he got you doing things?” Brayden asks quietly. I shake my head, though my voice trembles with uncertainty.

“No. He’s trying though.”

“What are you going to do?” Brayden asks. He seems genuinely concerned; his brows furrow as he studies my face.

I shrug, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. “I have no idea, Bray, but I can’t go back to that life. I won’t.” My jaw tightens as I force myself to meet his gaze, eyes heavy with sadness.

“You can’t,” he insists, making my heart clench. “You’ve started fresh, and it’s here. This is where you belong.” His words stir something deep inside me, and tears prick at my eyes. No one has ever told me I belong somewhere, especially not someone I expected to hold resentment toward me. Yet, here he is, giving me a lifeline, and it means everything. Despite my efforts to contain them, emotions well up within me.

“Dax.” Brayden breathes my name, softening.

“He’s ruined so many lives, Bray. I’m so sorry,” I whisper, the dam breaking as tears spill over.

“Hey, hey,” he says gently, standing up and crouching down in front of me, his brows knitted in concern. “This isn’t your fault.” He sighs deeply, the weight of everything clear in his gaze. “I know I treated you badly last year, Dax, and I’m sorry for that. I was angry, sad, and tired. I blamed everyone and everything for Bex.” My lip trembles as his words sink in, tears cascading down my cheeks and pooling in my lap. “Dax, look at me.” His voice anchors me, and my eyes slowly lift to meet his.

“It wasn’t your fault. You were Bex’s lifeline for all those years, just as he was yours. He was lucky to have you by his side through it all.” His words break something open inside me, and sobs shake my frame as Brayden’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. “You really miss him, don’t you?” he whispers.

“So fucking much, Bray. Some days, it feels like I can’t breathe at how much I miss him.” A single tear escapes down Brayden’s cheek, and he offers a weak smile.

“I get it,” he says, capturing the shared pain between us. He places a comforting hand on my knee. “It’s not your fault. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you that last year, Dax.” He stands and envelops me in a tight hug, his arms warm and grounding. “I’m really sorry.”

I sob into Brayden’s shoulder. The words I’ve secretly wanted to hear are finally spoken aloud. Even if I can’t fully believe it yet, hearing him say it means more than he knows. It’s my family. It will always be partly my fault.

Once my sobs finally quiet, he leans back and walks to his chair, giving me a soft smile. His own eyes are bloodshot.

“So,” I say, attempting a tight-lipped smile, “the team.”

“Trayton,” he replies, a smirk playing on his lips like he’s holding a secret.

“What about him?” I ask, doing my best to sound casual as I lean back in my chair. But relaxation is far from what I’m feeling. Why would he bring up Trayton to me now?

“His…” He gestures vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “Anger, I guess you can call it”—he rolls his eyes, dismissing the notion—“toward you, just ignore it. I know it can be hard because, well, it’s Trayton. That guy could summon a room to hell with how much he talks, but it’s just that—talk. Very little bite.”

“Well, last year…” I begin, recalling his fists in my face, but Brayden cuts me off.

“He was a very angry person last year, but he’s getting better.” He smirks, a knowing look on his face. “You could say he’s even softening for certain people.” His eyebrow arches suggestively in my direction.

“Not me.” I laugh, shaking my head.

“Uh-huh. Because he hates you, right?” He looks at me like he’s unraveling all the lies I’ve ever told, toying with them like a cat with a ball of yarn.

“You’re his best friend, you would know.”

“Not necessarily. Now Trayton can talk, but he doesn’t talk about his feelings.”

“Well, yeah, he does hate me. A lot .”

“Is that what he told you last night when you were in his dorm?” Brayden’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

I stare at Brayden, my eyes wide with shock. How the hell does he know?

“How?” I frown, confusion and curiosity clashing within me.

“Kal was walking back to his room when he saw you and ducked around the corner.” Brayden’s voice carries a hint of amusement, his eyes twinkling with mischief rather than judgment.

“It was a moment of weakness. It won’t be happening again,” I reply, trying to sound firm, even though there’s a slight waver in my words.

“Sure, sure,” Brayden says, stretching his arms over his head, his grin widening to reveal a set of straight, white teeth. He seems delighted, almost like he’s savoring every second of my discomfort. “Anyway, back to the interview.”

I watch Brayden, his eyes bright and sincere, as he shifts the focus back to our task. The warmth in his smile makes it impossible not to join him in moving on.

“What does hockey mean to you, Brayden?” I ask, adjusting the camera to capture his response.

After thirty minutes, the interview concludes, and I have to admit, Brayden’s words have left a big impression. They were the most heartfelt I’ve recorded so far. Each sentence had so much emotion and determination, drawing me in effortlessly. As he gathers his gear, I begin to pack up the equipment.

“How’s the project coming along?”

“Really good. I’ve been dedicating a lot of time to it, so I probably won’t be here for the next few sessions. I need to hit the library and catch up on some other work,” I explain, feeling the weight of my to-do list.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing it, Dax.” He gives me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Oh, and you should come out with us more often. It was nice seeing you out and smiling.” His sincerity is palpable, and I can’t help but nod and smile in response. “Even if you were talking to the rivals.” He side-eyes me with a smirk. “Oh, and Bohdi says hi. Well, actually, he said, ‘Can you tell my favorite ex-pupil I said hi?’” Brayden’s smile is infectious, and I find myself grinning.

“Tell Mr. Stiles—I mean Bohdi—that I said hi back. But I think you were definitely his favorite.” I winced as I corrected myself. I arch an eyebrow, and we both break into laughter.

“Catch you later, Dax,” Brayden calls as he heads for the door.

“Bye, Bray.” I turn back to the camera, ready to pack it away, but Bray’s voice stops me once more. He’s at the locker room door, one foot outside, ready to leave.

“Jamie never sucked Trayton’s dick, by the way. Trust me, we would know.” His smile is broad and teasing, and with that, he’s gone. I’m left staring at the door, my cheeks flushing crimson before my mouth spreads into the widest grin I’ve ever worn.

Fuck.