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Chapter thirty-five

Trayton

I t’s the first pre-season game, and I’m buzzing with excitement. Training sessions are great, but nothing compares to the thrill of playing against our rivals. Supposedly, it’s a friendly match, but anyone familiar with ice hockey knows there’s nothing friendly about it, especially when facing the Arctic Bears. “Do you smell that?” Cope asks, sniffing the air theatrically. Everyone joins in, while Coach just rolls his eyes. “I smell victory,” Cope declares, thumping his chest like a gorilla, prompting everyone to cheer and mimic his gesture. My gaze sweeps over the team, soaking in the adrenaline we always feel before a game, and then it settles on him. Lately, my eyes always find him. I swallow hard as his face lights up, his eyes wide with excitement as everyone around him jumps and shouts. My smile fades as the noise and movement around me dull, and it’s like I’m seeing him through tunnel vision. His smile brings a sense of calm, quieting my chaotic thoughts. But then his smile vanishes as Cope pulls him to his feet, forcing him into the spotlight he hates. Cope lifts his arms like a puppet, and Daxton frowns, muttering at Cope, who, unsurprisingly, ignores him. I can’t help but laugh. He looks awkward but somehow belongs here, as if he’s always been part of our team, supporting us from the sidelines. I can’t imagine him not being here. My Daxton trance is cut short as Coach’s voice booms through the locker room.

“I’m not here to give a big speech,” he announces as his gaze sweeps over all of us. “Play fair—skate rough. No swinging fists, and I want no bloodshed,” he bellows.

“We kill them by winning,” Kal shouts, and we all grip our sticks in response.

“Daxton,” Cope calls, turning toward him. “Today, your guy is putting in time on the ice.” Cope arches his eyebrows, and the moment Daxton’s eyes meet mine at the words “your guy,” my heart skips a beat—though it shouldn’t—and I find the sensation thrilling. We haven’t really defined what we are to each other, but deep down, I know it’s more than anything I’ve experienced before. I just can’t figure out how to navigate it yet.

“Mike is not my guy,” Daxton mumbles, frowning up at Cope, who looms over him.

“But you were out pretty late that night,” Cope teases with a smirk. Daxton’s cheeks flush bright red as his gaze locks with mine. I catch a slight tilt of his lips before he quickly looks away. One. My eyes drift over to Kal and Brayden—since Kal mentioned he saw Daxton leaving that night—and both grin at me before shifting their attention back to Daxton, whose eyes bounce between me, Cope, Kal, and Brayden as his blush deepens, before he finally smiles at me. Two.

“I thought Daxton wasn’t feeling well that night—wasn’t it a sore throat or something?” I interject. Kal bursts into wild laughter while Brayden chuckles silently, shaking his head. Daxton’s eyes widen in shock as he stares at me, the redness creeping further down his neck. Cope narrows his eyes, first at me, then at Dax, seemingly ready to interrogate him. But before he can, I almost blurt out to everyone that he was with me that night. Then Coach cuts in, urging us to move along. As I walk past Dax, I wink and tease, “Hope that throat is better.” He shakes his head, and I don’t miss the way he bites his cheek to stifle a smile. Three.

Outside on the rink, the Artic Bears strut around with an air of confidence that’s almost laughable. We’re up five-one and haven’t even broken a sweat. I’m pretty sure I could take them on while nursing a hangover and still dominate the ice. Bray glides through the middle with a carefree smile, as if this were just another practice session for us. He glances my way and shakes his head as one of the Bears’ defensemen barrels toward him. Effortlessly, Bray ducks and weaves, slicing the puck over to me through a clear opening. The moment that puck hits my stick, it bounces straight off and slips right between the goalie’s legs. I raise my hands in a playful taunt as I skate past their bench. “What the fuck is going on with you lot?” Maybe a little provocation will fire them up. I pass by Daxton and flash him a wink, which causes him to smile as he drops his head, no doubt to hide the blush that creeps up his cheeks. Four.

Then, as I turn, I’m whacked hard on my shoulder—not enough to send me sprawling, but enough to make me stagger a few steps on the ice.Ah, Mike Grady. I can’t help but wonder why he suddenly seems so uptight. “Mikey boy,” I call out as I skate around him, before leaning in as our helmets collide. I come to a stop, pushing my shoulders forward. “You lot are playing like fucking kids—what’s happening?”

“Shut the fuck up, King,” he spits out as his eyes dart to the edge of the rink before narrowing back at me. I steal a sideways glance and see Daxton watching with those wide, innocent eyes. Mike starts skating away, but of course, I can’t seem to hold my tongue.

“Yeah, sorry about taking your date that night,” I call after him. “I had this ache I just couldn’t soothe, so I needed some help.” I smirk and casually run my hand across my jockstrap “He soothed it so fucking well. Every time the ache comes back, he eases it right away. I’d even go as far as saying he’s mastered it.”

My smirk widens as my mouthguard flashes at him, but his expression hardens into pure rage. Within two strides, his helmet collides with mine. “Well, I hope you cleaned yourself after,” he sneers. In an instant, my smirk vanishes.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I hiss through my helmet, but he does dare. He goes there. “Because I heard those trailer trash boys are pretty fucking rotten.” I catch a couple of sarcastic laughs from him before my head swings back and then snaps forward—a thunderous helmet clash ringing out.

Grady is thrown back, his skates slipping out from under him as he crashes to the ice. I waste no time; I drop on him, rip off his helmet in one swift move, and let my fists rain blows across his face. By the fourth punch, blood spurts up and splatters across my face as chaos erupts around us, my teammates going wild while I continue landing shot after shot on Grady’s face.

“Tray,” his voice echoes from somewhere, but I ignore it.

“I’ll put you in the hospital, you piece of fucking shit!” I scream. Grady raises his hands weakly to cover his face, barely even attempting to fight back.

“Tray,” I hear Daxton call again as I feel arms tug at my jersey, but I shove them off hard, pulling back my aching fists and smashing them into Grady’s face once more.

I only catch a glimpse of his face—smeared with blood, with rivulets sinking into the ice—before Kal, Bray, and Cope yank me up off my feet. My helmet has gone in the chaos. Even as I’m hauled away, my eyes remain fixed on the gruesome scene, and I spit angrily at him. “I damn well dare you to say that again,” I growl.

“Trayton, snap out of it,” Bray hisses, his hand gently cradling my face. “Breathe,” he commands, his frantic, wide eyes locked on mine. I gulp in deep breaths, focusing solely on Brayden’s expression.

“Dax,” I murmur. His eyes soften, and he nods silently, urging.

“Come on.” He guides me off the ice, wrapping one arm over my shoulder as we weave through the chaos of shouting and screaming. I barely register the surrounding voices as I search for Daxton.

When we pass through the locker room doors, my eyes immediately scan the area until I spot him: his head tilted back, a tissue pressed against his nose, with Coach on his knees in front of him, tilting his chin upward. Enraged again, I storm toward him, seething with the thought of turning back onto that rink to make every single person who even glanced his way pay. Without thinking, I step next to Coach and shove his hand aside. “Give me the name,” I demand between ragged breaths.

Daxton rolls his eyes. “This is the least of my worries. You screwed up, Tray.”

“Yeah, you did—get in my office right now,” Coach booms into my ear.

“When I find out who hurt him, I’m going to come after them and tear them apart.” I don’t bother to look at Coach as I fix my gaze on Daxton.

“It doesn’t matter, Tray, jus—”

Coach cuts him off. “You,” Coach roars beside me. “It was you who hurt him—office, now!” He gestures behind him, and my stomach drops with a cold dread as I turn back to Daxton.

“Who hurt you, Dax?”

“You hurt me the most.” The echoes of those words from the hotel haunt my mind. It’s true—I keep hurting him. But how the hell do I stop?

“I’m so sorry,” I croak, my head hanging low as I follow Coach to his office, desperate for a way to make it stop.