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Chapter five

Trayton

“ O ver my dead body will that piece of shit be joining our team.” As if fucking Coach and Dean Miller have agreed to this. My blood simmers as I look over at a scowling Daxton, who doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Bet you’re loving this, aren’t you?” I glare in his direction.

“Trust me, this is the last place I want to be,” Daxton spits out in pure hatred, letting his eyes move up and down me like I’m trash on the sidewalk.

This prick.

“Trust me, Daxton, the feeling is fucking mutual. If your presence could be any more intolerable, I might just consider crawling through broken glass to escape it. But then again”—I smirk—“watching you squirm in this ‘last place you want to be’ is almost worth it.” My smirk widens into a full-blown grin when I see his jaw clench tightly and his nostrils flare.

I love getting under people’s skin.

“Both of you, shut the fuck up!” Coach bellows. His voice booms across the room, silencing everyone. Daxton’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he snaps his head toward Coach in shock.

“Excuse me,” he says, oblivious to Coach’s solid authority. The intensity of Coach’s voice isn’t just for show. In the world of hockey, where tempers flare and the stakes are high, a few harsh words are part of the game. We all swear like sailors here. It’s therapeutic. It’s a method to command respect and control in a team full of adrenaline-charged players.

“You’re not excused,” Coach responds, unflinching, not a single eyelid batting.

“Everyone, be quiet,” Dean Miller commands, rubbing his fingertips into his eyes and placing a hand on his hip. “The Devil Hawks are doing brilliantly for Hawksview. We were all over the media last season, and we need to keep that momentum. Hawksview needs this. People need to see what a great university this is for every field, not just sports. That’s why I brought in Daxton. He’s exceptionally talented and can bring real passion to this sport.”

“Hold up—” I cut Dean Miller off. “We’re the fucking heart of this sport.”

“Language, Trayton.” Coach clips me round the back of the head. The irony is laughable.

The dean’s jaw clenches, struggling to hold his composure.

“You have a heart? That’s laughable.” Daxton sneers.

“Jesus Christ,” Coach mutters under his breath.

“That’s it!” Dean Miller’s hand slams down on Coach’s desk with a resounding thud. “Trayton, if you don’t cut this high school crap, you’re off the team. Kiss those scouts goodbye.” I gape at him, then turn my eyes to Coach.

“Coach.” I croak the words, and I have to admit, Coach looks just as taken back as me. But he schools it as he raises his chin and keeps his eyes on the dean.

“Daxton, you can kiss all of this goodbye—your dorm, your final grade, everything—if you don’t comply.” Daxton huffs, his jaw tensing to the point of breaking. His glare shifts from the dean to me, pure hatred flashing in his eyes.

“Fine.” I grind my teeth, but then I take another look at his face. The raw hatred radiates from him, and I can’t help but find satisfaction in it. With a broad smile, I stand up, pushing my chair back, and stare down at Daxton before flashing him a wink.

“Oh, so fine by me.” As I leave Coach’s office, my smile widens, thinking of all the hell I’m going to bring to this guy.

A little while later, I hear many choice words from Kal while I get changed into my gear, telling me to sort myself out. Daxton exits the office with Dean Miller and Coach.

“Everyone.” Coach’s deep voice booms through the locker room. I steel my shoulders, taking a deep breath before I turn around and have the misfortune of facing the trash that entered this room. “Listen up.” Everyone gives Coach their attention. “This is Daxton Rivers; he is doing his art project on ‘The Art of Ice Hockey.’ This is great for the university and will give people a clearer understanding that it’s not just a puck and a bunch of bloodthirsty guys in skates with some sticks.” In that moment, I see Daxton roll his eyes because I can guarantee that is exactly what he probably thinks hockey is. “Daxton will be watching closely at how you play, your moves, your skills. He’ll capture this through various mediums, such as photography, sketches, or even written pieces. He’ll get the information for his writing from interviews with you. Daxton’s project will be a multimedia collage and will be posted on the Hawksview’s website when completed.”

“He must be good,” Kal mutters.

“He is,” Brayden whispers. “Bex always went on about his drawings.”

Of course he fucking did.

“You will treat Daxton with respect. A waiver will be available for you to sign tomorrow before training. This is for your approval for photography and interviews.” Coach claps his hands. “Any questions?”

“I do.” I raise my hand.

“Shock,” Coach mutters. “Go on.”

“What are the conditions if you don’t sign the waiver?” I ask because if there’s a way I don’t have to do this, then they can all kiss my ass. I don’t want that trash uttering any words to me or taking any of my pictures.

Coach stares at me with a bored expression. “You don’t play,” Coach deadpans.

“Wait, but—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kal says, gripping the back of my neck and squeezing as tight as he can, causing me to bend in half and move my head to one side from the pain.

“Ouch!” I whine.

“Thank you, Kal,” Coach says. “Any more questions?”

Immediately, everyone goes quiet and mumbles their nos. “Perfect.” Coach beams. I flip Kal off before moving my gaze to everyone. Some people know who Daxton is, who his family is, and they look at him like the piece of scum he is, but some don’t, or they don’t care and look at him with curiosity. By this time next week, I will make sure everyone on this team hates him and will make this whole fucking project his living nightmare.