Chapter 2
Damien
T he ice beneath my skates felt alive, pulsing with every aggressive move I made. I didn’t play for fun. I played to win.
To dominate.
To destroy .
This charity scrimmage was a joke—a pathetic PR stunt to keep my father’s name in the spotlight, a reminder of what our family once represented.
As I slammed Logan into the boards, the crack of his body against the glass resonated through me like a symphony. The other players gasped, but all I heard was the deafening silence of my father’s expectations looming over me.
He stood in the stands, arms crossed, an imperious figure wrapped in tailored perfection. Ever since Cooper left, things had gone south. My brother was the golden child—the one who had it all figured out.
Me?
I was just the spare, forever caught in my father’s shadow, cursed with his relentless drive for success.
Forgotten for the most part until I acted out.
“Show them you’re not weak,” my father had barked before I stepped onto the ice.
The words clung to me like a heavy fog, suffocating any desire to play for anything other than survival. He didn’t care about this charity nonsense; he only cared about how I presented myself—the Sinclaire name carried weight, and I was expected to uphold it.
The game resumed around me, but my focus remained on that hollow gaze from above. Each move became a statement—a rebellion against being treated like a pawn in his game of perfection. The rink transformed into my battleground; every check was a blow against years of pressure and disappointment.
As the whistle blew again and Logan lay on the ice, picking himself up, I caught sight of her—Holly—standing there at the edge of my world.
She looked small, yet there was something powerful in her stillness that made me pause momentarily. A flicker of memory ignited within me; those summer nights when everything felt possible before life tightened its grip.
But no time for nostalgia now.
I turned back to Logan, sneering down at him like a conqueror surveying his domain. But my eyes drifted back to Holly again—my connection to something real—and it filled me with rage that she could ever be part of this farce orchestrated by my father.
This wasn’t about winning or losing; it was about breaking free from chains forged by expectation and resentment—and she had unwittingly walked right back into it.
I’d seen the messages on her phone, even caught glimpses of her texting Logan when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I had software tracking her.
Ever since she and her stupid friend got involved with that frat, I had to.
To protect her.
It gnawed at me, that little flicker of intimacy she shared with Logan fucking Hartley, the way she laughed at his jokes and seemed so at ease. We’d gone out a couple of times before the breakup, but that was nothing compared to what I felt for her.
Logan didn’t know what he was getting into. He thought he could waltz in, throw around some charm, and win her over like it was some kind of game. He didn’t realize that Holly had been mine once—still fucking was, whether or not she agreed with it.
When I found out about them, my hands curled into fists. The urge to slam Logan against the boards again burned in my gut. The asshole was lucky I didn’t just lose it and kill him right there on the ice.
Holly had ruined everything two years ago when she walked away from me without looking back. She tore apart the one thing that felt real in my world. All those moments we shared—late-night talks under the stars, laughter echoing across summer nights—flashed before me like a movie reel, each memory a reminder of what I'd lost.
I wanted her back more than anything, yet all I could do was watch from a distance as she slipped further away, tangled in someone else's life while I remained trapped in mine. The rage inside me simmered, but there was also something deeper—a hollow ache that no amount of aggression could fill.
It made sense that Holly would be drawn to someone like Logan; he seemed safe and normal, everything I wasn’t. But did she really think he could handle her? Did she believe he’d love her fiercely enough to withstand everything we’d been through?
Every time I thought of them together, it sent a jolt through me—a mix of jealousy and despair—and yet here I stood, unable to break free from the spell she cast over me.
Holly turned away, and just like that, I felt the world dim. She probably had some stupid role in this charity event—an over-glorified babysitter for the real players. The thought twisted my gut.
Tom Morgan glided over, his presence like a storm cloud rolling in. He blew the whistle with a shrillness that cut through the arena noise and skated up to me, a scowl etched on his face.
“Sinclaire!” he barked, shaking his head like I was a child who’d just drawn on the walls. “This ain’t a goddamn NHL showdown; it’s a scrimmage for charity. You’re gonna need to dial it back, or I swear to God, I’ll bench you faster than you can say hockey stick . For fuck's sake, it's a fucking charity game.”
I smirked at him, unable to suppress the urge to push back. “What? You think I should give him a hug instead? Maybe some cookies after I put him into the boards?”
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer, towering over me like an angry hawk ready to pounce. “You want me to get all motherfucker on your ass? Because I’ve got no problem turning this ice into your personal purgatory if you keep this crap up.”
I chuckled dryly. “And here I thought we were just playing hockey, Coach. Guess you missed that memo.”
He huffed out an annoyed breath but finally skated away as if he couldn’t be bothered to deal with me any longer.
Which I was used to from most everyone.
As we wrapped up the scrimmage, my mind drifted back to Holly—how she stood there with that familiar warmth in her gaze before she turned cold and distant. My heart thumped against my ribs as if trying to break free from the weight of my own making.
I needed to keep it together, but every glance at her stung like salt on an open wound.
I trudged into the locker room, the scent of sweat and ice clinging to me like a second skin. The shower beckoned, promising a brief escape from the chaos swirling in my mind. I needed that—needed to wash away the remnants of the scrimmage, of Holly’s gaze, and the searing jealousy gnawing at my gut. as I stepped under the spray. The hot water cascaded over me, a momentary relief against the intensity that followed me like a shadow.
After my shower, I started to dress, hoping I could get the fuck out of here before I was forced into doing something else.
“All right, listen up!” Tom Morgan’s voice boomed. “Are you decent? We need to go over the expectations for this game before anyone can fucking fuck this up.”
I rolled my eyes. Typical Morgan—always barking orders as if he were some sort of royalty ruling over his hockey kingdom. I glanced toward him, leaning against a locker, arms crossed and expression fierce. He had an edge to him I always admired. At least he wasn't fucking phony.
Then there was U of M's assistant coach, some wannabe with an all-too-perfect smile that reminded me of some aging actor in his prime—sharp jawline, slicked-back hair, and an air of smug confidence that made my skin crawl. There was something else—a sense of performative authority that rubbed me the wrong way. I caught him watching us like he was sizing up his next conquest on a reality show.
He stood too close to Tom as if he were trying to siphon off some of his power by proximity. It felt fake; something about him just didn’t sit right with me. Was it his insincerity? The way he looked at us like we were pieces on a chessboard? Whatever it was, I didn’t trust him.
“Now listen,” Morgan continued. “This charity game isn’t just for show; we’ve got sponsors watching closely. We can’t afford any slip-ups.”
The assistant coach nodded vigorously, adding unnecessary commentary that droned on in my ears like static. “It’s important for the reputation of all involved; we need to make sure we look good out there.”
Yeah, well, looking good didn’t matter if you didn’t play well.
I dressed quickly while tuning them out—lost in thoughts of Holly again—the warmth in her eyes that turned frigid when she saw me tackle Logan like it was personal. All those memories came flooding back with every click of my skate guards against the tile floor.
“Sinclaire!” Tom barked suddenly, pulling me back into focus. “Pay attention.”
I shot him a glance and let out a noncommittal grunt before slipping on my hoodie. Whatever they said next wouldn’t change what happened on that ice today or how hard I’d fight for what I wanted—even if it meant battling both my past and this prick who thought he could run our lives from behind a clipboard.
“Gentlemen,” the other coach—Stanley? The fuck if I knew—began, his voice dripping with condescension, “this charity game is more than just a scrimmage. The NHL sponsors this event every year. It’s an honor and a privilege to participate. It means you’re among the best of the best.”
“Or that your father made some calls.” Logan shot me a glare from across the room, his voice low and growly.
I leaned back against my locker, crossing my arms with a smirk. “What can I say? Dad’s always had a knack for bending reality to fit his narrative.”
A few chuckles rippled through the locker room, but Logan remained tense, teeth clenched like he was preparing for a fight rather than a charity game.
“E-fucking-nough!” Morgan barked, cutting through our banter with his usual authority. “This isn’t about your family connections or whatever twisted advantage you think you have. You all need to understand that even though players participating are from all across the country, we need to be unified in this.”
He paced back and forth in front of us, intensity radiating off him like heat from an oven. “The majority of you have already been drafted. Just because you’ve deferred doesn’t guarantee you a spot on the team. This is a way to showcase your development to your respective teams.”
His words sank in like lead weights. I could feel the tension creeping up my spine again—the pressure of proving myself was as familiar as my skates digging into the ice.
“Make it count,” he continued, eyes narrowing at each one of us as if willing us to absorb every syllable.
The stakes felt impossibly high in that moment, yet all I could think about was how easy it would be to slip back into fire—the familiar rush of anger pushing me forward when nothing else felt within reach. I glanced at Logan again; something about him always set me off balance.
But this wasn’t just about proving myself anymore; it was also about showing Holly I wasn’t just some reckless punk trying to escape my demons.
Morgan paced in front of us, the tension palpable. “This isn’t just a scrimmage; it’s an opportunity,” he declared, eyes darting over our faces. “There’s a dinner with donors and a gala afterward. Alumni from Crestwood, current players, and NHL legends will be in attendance.”
A low murmur swept through the locker room, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. The chance to rub elbows with NHL greats had everyone buzzing—everyone but me. I had enough shit in my life without mixing in old ghosts.
Fucking NHL alumni weren't that great either.
“Expect to rent tuxedos,” Morgan continued, a glimmer of annoyance flickering across his features as he glanced at me.
“Yeah? What if I’d rather wear my game jersey?” I shot back, a smirk playing on my lips.
Morgan glared at me, then pressed on. “This is important for fundraising. The committee will be reaching out to collect your information.”
“Just as long as you don’t fucking go to jail this time,” Sawyer Wolfe interjected from across the room.
He lounged against his locker like some sort of lazy predator—slender yet deceptively powerful with that white hair falling just so over his eyes and that cocky grin plastered on his face. He always seemed to have an air of nonchalance about him, but beneath it lay sharp instincts and a fierce competitive edge.
“Fuck off,” Morgan snapped back, clearly irritated by Sawyer’s trademark sarcasm.
I could see why they clashed—the two were opposites in every sense. Morgan was all intensity and discipline; Sawyer exuded laid-back confidence that often landed him in hot water. Yet there was something appealing about that carefree attitude; it was like watching a cat toy with its prey before pouncing.
The chatter faded into the background as I mulled over the weekend—a mandatory gala where every player would be expected to shine like polished silver while pretending we belonged to this elite circle of privilege and influence.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that this whole event was just another way for my father to reinforce his legacy—just because he was retired didn't mean he wanted to be forgotten. It was like a spotlight shining bright on all my flaws while he grinned like a goddamn puppet master. I clenched my fists, fighting against the rising frustration gnawing at me from within.
Morgan finally dismissed us, his voice echoing in the stillness that followed his tirade. I watched my teammates disperse, their chatter buzzing around me like flies drawn to a festering wound. They all seemed so caught up in the glitz of the gala, the promise of rubbing shoulders with NHL legends.
I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder, forcing myself to focus. As I headed toward Logan, who was still pulling on his shirt and chatting with some other players, the air between us crackled with unspoken tension. He laughed at something one of them said, the sound irritatingly carefree.
“Hartley,” I said, my voice low and sharp as glass.
He turned, a cocky grin plastered across his face that quickly morphed into something more guarded when he saw me closing the distance.
“You touch Holly Walker,” I warned, leaning in closer so only he could hear. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
His brows shot up in surprise, but there was no backing down from me—not now. I had seen how he looked at her, and that wasn’t going to fly.
“What’s it to you?” he replied, feigning indifference as if my words didn’t hit home.
But there was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it fear? Confusion? Whatever it was barely masked by his bravado.
“It’s everything,” I shot back, every word dripping with intensity.
Before he could respond with another snide remark or a challenge of his own, I turned on my heel and left him behind without another word. The locker room faded away as I stormed outside.