I set my fork down. “Who is Pearson?”
The table went dead silent. Trenton looked at me. “He was before your time.”
“He was a freshman goalie,” a senior defenseman added. “Had good stats. Then someone caught him behind a bar downtown with some townie guy.”
Both of my hands clamped onto the edge of the table. “With a guy?”
“Yeah.” Trenton took a quick sip of his soda. “He lost his scholarship soon after due to ‘conduct unbecoming of a Ridge Cross athlete’.” Trenton made finger-air quotes with his hands.
“Nobody else would touch him after that,” the defenseman said. “Total career suicide.”
Trenton smirked. He looked around the table. “So, you know. Don’t go bunking with freshmen.”
The guys snickered again, and a forced laugh scraped my throat.
I’ve got nothing to worry about,I thought to myself.I’m just... stressed. And kind of hyper-aware of a particular guy who keeps getting in my space.
But the harsh reality of Trenton’s joke sat on the table like a loaded gun. It didn’t matter what I called this weird, tight feeling I got when I was around Aleksey.
If anyone else noticed it—if anyone even suspected I was looking at Aleksey the wrong way—I could end up like Pearson.
My fingers locked around my water glass in a death grip.
Elliot frowned, leaning into me. “Earth to Karter. You haven’t heard a word anyone’s said for five minutes.”
“I’m just thinking about my study schedule,” I said quickly.
“Right.” Trenton checked his watch and stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Anyway, time to go. Coach wants us in early to watch some film.”
Elliot grabbed his bag. “Are you heading with us?”
I gripped my water glass. “Nah, I’ll catch up. I want to finish this.”
Trenton smirked, already walking away. “Suit yourself. Try not to freeze to death in that house.”
Going through the motions of team practice later that evening felt like moving underwater. The second I was free, I retreated to the Ice House, spending the rest of the night hiding in my room.
Hours passed with the slanted ceiling pressing down on me, the still quiet doing nothing to stop my brain from spinning.
Late that night, I finally gave up on sleep. I went downstairs and pushed open the wooden door to the shared bathroom, needing to splash cold water on my face. As I stepped inside, the sharp tang of industrial cleaner and stale beer caught in the back of my throat.
The bathroom light flickered, casting a harsh glare across the cheap tile. Aleksey stood over the sink, bare-chested, wearing grey sweatpants and slides on his feet. His broad shoulders moved in a frantic, uneven rhythm as he scrubbed his hands aggressively under the running tap. I reached out and turned the faucet off. He froze.
Dark, drying blood stained his knuckles, and a fresh cut marked his split lip. Growing up in locker rooms, I knew exactly what a rink fight looked like: clean splits from glancing off a fiberglass helmet, or bruises from tangled jerseys.
This wasn’t that.
His skin was shredded and raw, the cuts jagged as if he’d been swinging bare-fisted at whatever he could hit.
It wasn’t a hockey injury. Instead, it was clearly the messy work of a desperate fight.
The story about Pearson from dinner echoed loudly in my mind. The smart move was to turn around and walk right back up to my room. Instinct pulled me a half-step backward. But then Aleksey let out a ragged breath. His shoulders slumped. He looked beaten down, scrubbing away the evidence so he wouldn’t get caught and benched.
Taking a step forward broke my lifelong habit of letting things go.
Walking past him, I opened the medicine cabinet. The glass shelves rattled slightly. I grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and a stack of gauze pads, setting them on the counter next to the sink.
Aleksey didn’t look up. “Stop,” he said, his voice jagged. “You’re not my fucking nurse.”
