The puck drops. Sticks clash, bodies slam into the boards, blades shriek across the ice. I skate hard, adrenaline burning through the fog in my head. The puck finds its way toward me, and I drive forward, cutting past defenders with clean strides. But Phoenix is there. Always there. He matches me move for move, his presence like a weight pressing on my back. His stick jabs, forcing me wider, my angle shrinking.
“You had that yesterday,” he taunts, voice low, meant only for me. “What’s wrong? Getting scared?”
I grit my teeth, forcing the puck through his reach. He clips my hip with his stick, too aggressive for practice. My balance wobbles, and the puck slides free. Phoenix snatches it, skating off with a laugh that makes the blood roar in my ears.
The drill ends with his team scoring. He lifts his arms like he’s just won the Stanley Cup. “Guess the prodigy’s human after all!”
Laughter again. Louder this time. Not cruel, but enough to sting. Enough to make my chest tighten with that old familiar heat. I skate back to the line, face blank, pulse hammering.
Breathe. Don’t give him what he wants.
But beneath the calm mask, something twists. I’m not particularly angry at the attention. Part of me is lit up in a way I can’t explain. Phoenix doesn’t bother hazing people he doesn’t care about. If he’s this relentless, it means I’ve gotten under his skin, too. Or maybe, I’m just good enough to catch his eye.
Another whistle. Coach barks for one last scrimmage. “Tighten it up out there! No passengers.”
The puck drops again, and this time I skate with a clarity I haven’t felt all practice. Phoenix wants me rattled. He wants me stumbling. I won’t give him that. Not today.
I cut across the ice, intercepting the puck clean. My legs pump harder, my lungs screaming, but I push past it and drive through.
Phoenix barrels after me, his stick clashing against mine.
“Come on, Cameron,” he growls, breathless. “Show me what you’ve got.”
And I do. I snap the puck hard to the top corner of the net, slipping it past the goalie’s glove with precision. The red light flares. Goal.
The team whoops, sticks tapping the ice. Even Coach gives a short nod of approval. I skate back slowly, meeting Phoenix’s gaze as he pulls up near the blue line. His grin is still there, sharp as ever, but there’s something else beneath it—something tight, sparking.
“I see you, Lee,” he says finally, tapping his stick once against the ice.
I don’t answer. Just glide past, every nerve alive under his stare. Did he just call me Lee? Like we’re friends? Like he’s proud of me?
Practice wraps minutes later, players coasting off toward the benches. My legs feel like lead, my chest heavy, but my mind refuses to quiet. Phoenix pushes, pokes, and taunts me every second we share the ice. And somehow, instead of breaking me,it leaves me… lit. Like I’m burning from the inside out. And I can’t decide if I hate him for it or if I want more.
The locker room should feel like relief after practice, but the moment I peel my pads off, the ache flares sharp and deep along my ribs. I keep my face blank, moving carefully as the guys joke and slam lockers around me, but the bruise Phoenix carved into me during scrimmage pulses hot under my skin. Every breath reminds me it’s there.
I tug my undershirt on quickly before anyone can notice how I wince. No chance I’m letting Coach see. He’d bench me in a second if he thought I was compromised, and the thought of being sidelined because of one reckless clash makes my stomach twist. I have to be the best.
Faults were not something I could have next to my name.
That’s what this is really about. Control over how they see me, how much they think they know. If I give an inch and show weakness, I’ll never get it back. I’ll be the kid who can’t take a hit. Worse, I’ll be the kid Phoenix Locke rattled clean off his game.
Nope. Not happening.
I keep my shoulders squared, joining the stream of players filing toward the showers. I time my steps, careful not to favor one side. Pride sits heavy in my chest, heavier than the throb of my ribs.
“Nice save at the end there, Cameron.” Nolan claps me on the back, oblivious to how close I come to biting back a grimace.
“Shut Locke up for half a second.”
“Longest I’ve ever heard silence from him.” Someone else laughs.
“Yeah,” I mutter, managing a small smirk. “About time.”
The guys laugh, moving on, their words bouncing in the humid air. Easy, natural camaraderie. I want to sink into it, but every inhale scrapes against the bruise, a constant reminder that beneath the easy front I’m carrying damage.
Coach’s whistle echoes faintly down the hall. He’s checking in with players as they filter out, sharp-eyed as ever. I adjust my gear bag over my shoulder, forcing myself to move steadily, no limp, no hesitation. When his gaze lands on me, I keep my expression neutral.
“Solid finish today, Cameron,” he says. His tone is clipped but not unkind. “Bit sloppy in the middle. You sick?”
