Page 17

Cody

Asher leaned into me and whispered, “Damn, Cody. Your stepbro is fucking sick.”

I didn’t respond. I just watched as Rafael, sitting on the visitors’ bench, gripped his water bottle and shot a stream into his mouth—his Adam’s apple bobbed as droplets of water escaped his mouth and traveled down his neck. Rafael set the bottle on the bench and then turned toward me. Our eyes met, and the asshole released a shit-eating grin. I flipped him off, and he cackled in response.

Dick.

I hated to admit it, but Rafael skated with the skill of a professional. His speed was unmatched during the tryouts, and his ability to go from maximum speed to a screeching halt without a trace of struggle made my heartbeat rage in my chest. He looked amazing out there—everyone thought so. He didn’t slow down the entire time.

I’d played for Coach Hughes long enough to know when a player impressed him. He hated showing any praise or approval, so his face would morph into stoic stillness, hoping he wasn’t giving anything away.

But I saw it. Rafael would have to royally screw up during the scrimmage not to get a spot .

I didn’t want Rafael on this team. I played right winger, so we weren’t competing for the same position, but, nevertheless, I didn’t want him here. I’d worked hard for my spot, finally made the top three, and I didn’t want to play alongside someone like him.

How could I trust him on the ice? How could I be sure he wouldn’t sabotage me somehow? The hours of practice I put in, the tears I shed when we lost, my fucking heart and soul was in this sport, and the thought of playing it next to Rafael made my stomach churn.

He’d mess this up with his goddamn antics. Whatever was happening between us would make its way onto the ice, and that was something I couldn’t allow. He’d already ruined my life by moving in. He wasn’t about to screw this up too.

The whistle sounded, and Coach Hughes motioned Rafael and the other two prospects onto the ice. Asher, our center, Theo, who usually played defense, Rowan, our goalie, and I joined them. Rowan made his way to the goal as we met the potential recruits at the center.

Rafael’s face twisted into a smirk as he watched me approach. His look of hateful glee lit a fire under me. I was ready for him.

Brace yourself, asshole. I’m coming for you.

“Eighteen, center. Five, right winger. Twenty-two, left.”

Jesus fucking Christ. The coach had to do this on purpose. Play the step-brothers against each other and see if they can work together as a team. That he put Rafael as left forward was a sign that he was strongly considering him.

“You’ll play for fifteen minutes. It’ll be quick and hard—just enough time to see how you do in a high-intensity situation. Got it?”

The players bellowed their affirmations. Well, two of them did. Rafael just nodded like a prick.

“Set it up!”

We made our way to our positions. I glanced at Rafael before taking a deep breath and closing my eyes. I couldn’t let him rattle me. This was my moment to show him what I was made of. I wanted him to know who he was dealing with.

The whistle screeched, and the puck hit the ice with a thud.

Rafael

I could almost taste Cody’s agitation, and it tasted delicious. He hated standing across from me, and I couldn’t help but feel a tingle in my belly when he gripped his stick and lowered into a ready position. That’s it. Stick that ass out for me, Golden Boy, because it’s about to be mine. The whistle pierced my ears, and the puck hit the ice.

Eighteen, our center, battled hard but lost the face-off. Their center passed it to their left winger. I stayed on Cody because our right winger was a beast, pushing with a force that almost knocked the other player over. Their left winger passed it to Cody, who slapped the puck toward the boards. The fuck? My body jerked toward the puck as it soared away from me. Cody flew by, completely disorienting me. The puck bounced off the boards and he caught his own pass on the rebound. I had to admit, he played me fucking dirty with that one.

With the puck in his possession, Cody made a breakaway for our goalie, played by assistant coach Briar. Not so fast, baby.

I sped after him, racing down the ice. My legs ached from our sprints, but I caught up to him as he aimed to take a shot. I slid and kicked the puck away, sending it to the boards. Cody shot off like a cannon, trying to regain control, but I was back on my feet, racing toward him. The minute his stick touched the puck, I was on his ass. I checked him into the boards, his body bouncing off the glass. Cody threw his elbow at me, trying to push me off him. His body was made for this sport; it felt like having a bulldozer plow into me.

I turned my right shoulder into him and pushed hard. He stumbled to the ice, and the puck was mine. Still on both knees, Cody reached with his stick to swipe it out of my possession. I raced after it, but Cody was off the ice in a flash. The fucker was on me the minute my stick touched the puck. Our sticks clashed as our bodies collided, fighting fiercely for control. He got away and took a shot, which ricocheted off the crossbar. I wasn’t going to beat Cody with pure force. He was a bruiser, but I was faster and needed to lean into that. I had to be smart and quick. The puck was still in play, and I pushed past Cody and beat him to it.

With possession of the puck, I raced down the rink. I had to hand it to the other two prospects; they were killing it on defense. Sticks slammed against mine, and the sounds were like explosions in the arena. With the help of my teammates, I maintained control of the puck. The rhythm of it against my stick played like a metronome in my mind. My moves were crisp, and I hummed in approval at the vibration of my skates against the ice.

The goal was in sight. If I scored first, that would be it. There was no doubt I’d make the team if I scored.

I stopped and aimed, ready to slap that puck into the net and get the spot I deserved when a renegade Zamboni—at least that’s what it felt like—plowed into me, sending me soaring through the air. My body slammed into the ice, then I slid into the boards head first.

Once the world stopped spinning, I turned my head to see Cody heaving at the spot where I’d just been tossed like a rag doll. The little bitch boarded me. The coach raced to Cody and started berating him. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I knew he was in deep shit. It didn’t matter, though. I was still a prospect, and every second on the ice was a moment to prove myself. An assistant coach raced to my side to check on me.

I started turning to my front, trying to push myself off the ice and back on my skates when he said, “No, don’t move, kid. Just relax—”

“Let’s go!” I called out. Everyone on the ice turned toward me with shocked faces. “Time’s not up. Let’s go!”

Should I have played more? Probably not, but I kept playing to show this team I wasn’t going down without a fight.

Cody

“Bramble! Have you lost your goddamn mind? It’s a tryout scrimmage!”

Coach’s hot breath only magnified the inferno inside me. I wanted so desperately to show Rafael that I wasn’t a pushover that I freaking lost it.

I’d let Rafael dominate me in ways that made me question the very essence of who I was. He’d dominated my thoughts for days. The prospect of letting him dominate me on the ice, too, was just unbearable. I wanted to show him that this was my turf. That, no matter what happened between us, this was my fucking house. I wanted to be the dominant one.

Instead, as it became more apparent to me just how skilled a player Rafael was, rage consumed me. He was too fast and too smart; he could strategize on the fly, and his puck handling was tremendous. Jealousy consumed me.

The fire inside that forces you to push yourself harder than you thought possible transformed into an uncontrollable eruption of lava that blazed in my body. I couldn’t get a grip on it. My limbs weren’t mine anymore.

“—Time’s not up! Let’s go!”

Motherfucker. Rafael was back on his feet, skating like I’d done a minor shoulder check and not an all-out tackle from behind. How could he skate after being boarded like that? I thought I had seriously hurt him. I even got worried before I remembered how much I fucking hated him.

Coach called out, “Williams! You’re in.” Then he turned to me. “Take a seat, Bramble. We’ll talk about this later.”

Shame consumed me as I skated back to the bench. I didn’t overpower Rafael. It was a cheap shot from behind. It wasn’t strong; I looked pathetic.

He’s right.

Rafael played like an ace. His build wasn’t as thick as a typical player’s, and he moved like the wind. There was a fluidity to it that I’d never seen from a hockey player. He maneuvered gracefully around opponents but could hold his own in a scrap.

The buzzer sounded—fifteen minutes came and went. Coach walked over to the other two players and shook their hands. They skated off the ice as he approached Rafael, jabbering.

I’d seen this before. Coach never said something like, “Congratulations! You did it!” If he chose you, he would walk right up and start discussing logistics: position, practice times, travel schedule, and so on.

Rafael nodded through it all. Coach signaled him to follow with a toss of his head and led him to the bench.

“This is Rafael Sinclair; our new starting left winger.”

There was an audible intake of air from the other players. It was rare for a new recruit to start like this, but it wasn’t surprising. We had all just witnessed what Rafael was capable of.

I looked at him and saw his eyes locked on me. Rafael’s lips curled into a smirk, and that uncontrollable fire that blazed inside me reignited. I just hoped it wouldn’t consume me. I couldn’t let him get to me like that again. I had to regain control.

Don’t let him dominate you.