Karter frowned. “So? We tell them we got into a shoving match.”
“I did,” I said, my tone hardening. “But anyone with half a brain who looks at the photo can see it wasn’t a fight. I am staring right at your mouth. It looks like I am about to kiss you.”
Karter went still. The frown disappeared, leaving his expression blank as the problem began to register. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and dragged a palm down his face. “Who sent it? Angel Perez?” He looked around the empty courtyard like someone was watching us. “Angel was pretty clear about us being a problem.”
“Angel looks out for himself, but he does not rat out his own linemates,” I said. “He knows what losing this scholarship means to me and Mom. It wasn’t him.”
Karter swallowed hard. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. “Then who?”
“Think about the timing.” I held his gaze. “Chicago scouts asked for my transcripts yesterday. This shows up today.”
Karter’s eyes widened. He looked past me for a second as the pieces clicked together. “Trenton? He is one of Elliot’s guys. He has been bitching all season about the legacy roster getting pushed out. He could be trying to screw with your draft.”
“That tracks.” I kept my voice dead level, not wasting any energy on getting pissed off. “I remember him acting like an entitled prick and getting in our faces over ice time a few weeks ago. He wants me gone.”
“Okay, so we deny it,” Karter pushed back. He took a quick step toward me, closing the gap. He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “We will just be smarter. We can figure this out.”
“If they catch us again, I am done.” I stepped back, cutting him off before I did something stupid. “We have to go cold. No contact. No nothing.”
Karter froze. “Aleks, no.”
I crossed my arms, building a wall between us. Locking down every single thing I felt for him, I stared back with zero expression. “There is no other way. It is done.”
“You do not mean that.” Karter’s voice actually shook. “Last night...”
I forced a hard swallow, fighting the sudden ache in my throat to get the lie out. “Last night doesn’t matter,” I cut him off. My voice came out completely dead.
His face fell. The absolute heartbreak in his expression physically hurt to look at, making my fingers twitch with an urge to smooth that hurt away. But the scouts, the scholarship, the pressure: all of it had piled up.
“Just stay away from me,” I told him.
I turned my back and walked away, absolutely refusing to look back while I left him standing alone in the courtyard.
Getting through the rest of the day was a grind. Especially when I had to share the ice with Karter for a two-hour practice later. But I spent the entire time running drills on autopilot just to make sure I never looked directly at him.
By the time I could finally retreat to the Ice House and lock the door to my small attic room, I was worn out.
I did not bother turning on the lights; I just sat on the edge of my mattress in the dark.
The corner radiator clanked in the background while I listened to Karter moving around next door. The cheap drywall didn’t hide a thing. A shoe hit the floorboards, followed by the sharp slam of a drawer, and then his bedsprings let out a loud squeak when he finally dropped his weight onto the mattress.
Sitting there, listening to him, drove me crazy. I cracked my knuckles over and over, using the sharp pops to keep my hands busy. The urge to walk over to his room, knock on the door, and take the whole thing back was a massive fight. I tried to convince myself I had made the smart, realistic choice to protect my draft chances.
But the logic did not fix the crushing thought that I had just thrown away the only real thing I had found since I came to this college.
Collapsing back onto the bed, I stared up at the ceiling. Then, reaching out, I flattened my hand against the cheap drywall.
Karter was right there, sitting a few inches away on the other side. But I had just made sure I could never touch him again.
Chapter 17 - Karter
Pretending Aleksey didn’t exist for two hours on the ice took more effort than actually playing the game.
Usually, the ice is where I stop thinking, but stepping onto the rink for two o’clock practice just felt cold.
I tried to fall back on muscle memory: keep my head down, cycle the puck, don’t draw attention. But my timing was half a beat off, and every delayed reaction gave away exactly how distracted I was.
Instead of reading the hockey play, I was reading the other side of the rink. I couldn’t stop tracking Aleksey.
