“Let it go, Clay,” Elliot ordered sharply from the front of the pack.
Over by the boards, Perez slammed the blade of his stick hard against the ice and muttered a harsh curse.
“We have the Cold Quartet in three weeks,” Coach continued, raising his voice to cut through the chatter. “Which means we need to focus. I expect everyone to maintain our standards and keep distractions off my ice. Are we clear?”
My grip on my stick tightened until the leather of my gloves creaked. Across the rink, Trenton tracked the entire exchange while leaning against the glass. He caught my eye and smirked.
Coach blew the whistle to start a high-speed breakout drill. Players flew past in a blur of practice jerseys, but the actual play utterly disappeared from my mind.
Instead, I tracked Trenton. He caught a pass along the half-wall, dropping his chin for a split second to settle the puck on his blade.
I abandoned my usual clean stride. Instead, digging my edges deep into the ice, I sped up, aiming straight for him. He glanced up just in time to see me coming. Dropping my shoulder, I drove all my weight forward and checked him viciously into the boards. The satisfying thud of his body hitting the glass echoed loudly through the arena.
Ice shavings sprayed against my shins as I came to an aggressive stop. It was a dirty, dangerous hit that went against everything I had ever been taught about playing smart hockey. But watching Trenton crumple to the ice sent a hot, rushingthrill through my body. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and I did not regret a single second of it.
Coach Corby blew his whistle in a frantic, shrill burst.
Trenton scrambled up, breathing hard. He shoved me forcefully in the shoulder, and I shoved him right back.
“That was for Aleksey,” I said right to his face, pitching my voice loud enough so the rest of the team watching us in dead silence would hear every word.
Trenton brushed off the front of his jersey as if I were nothing but dirt. Stepping into my space, he pressed the cage of his helmet right up against mine.
Trenton laughed, a short, ugly sound that bounced off the glass. “Careful, Karter. The administration’s just cleaning house, bro. Don’t end up on the wrong side of the broom.”
The tape on my stick bit into my palm as my grip tightened. “You went crying to the AD because someone else was out-skating you,” I said, the words cold and level. “Nobody forced you to be a craptastic defenseman who needs a fucking investigation to clear his ice time. You did that all on your own.”
The smug confidence wiped right off his face. Trenton reared his head back and slammed the metal cage of his helmet against mine. But I held my ground and refused to flinch.
“At least I am not slumming it in the attic, getting on my knees for a scholarship rat,” Trenton sneered, dropping his voice into a vicious, mocking whisper. “Your boyfriend is gone. Keep acting up, and you’re next.”
A beat later, a harsh spray of snow hit my calves. Coach Corby skated hard into our huddle and forced himself right between us, grabbing both of our jerseys to shove us apart.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Karter?” Coach roared. His face was flushed a furious, mottled red as he pointed a thick glove toward the tunnel. “Get off my ice right now! You are benched for the rest of practice.”
The penalty felt like a massive victory, so I did not bother arguing or apologizing. Turning my back on Trenton, I skated off the rink and headed straight for the empty locker room.
I threw my helmet into the open stall, letting the hard plastic smack against the metal backing. The damp, humid air of the empty locker room clung to my sweat-drenched skin as I ripped off my padded gloves.
The locker room double doors swung open a second later.
Elliot marched straight past the center benches and boxed me in against the wooden cubbies, having skipped the rest of the drill just to follow me off the ice.
“You cannot do that,” Elliot said, his voice low and sharp. His hand clamped down on my shoulder pad, locking me against the stall. “You cannot make it that obvious.”
There it was. Not a question about whether I was okay. Not five seconds to breathe. Straight into damage control, same as Dad, same as always.
“Don’t start with me.” I shoved his hand off and threw my elbow pads into the bottom of my bag.
“I am starting with you.” He kicked my duffel bag out of the way and stepped in. “What was that garbage out there? You just gift-wrapped exactly what Trenton wanted.”
“I don’t care!” I wrenched my chest protector over my head and hurled it onto the bench. “I don’t care about the optics, El. I don’t care about the legacy. Dad told me to never call him back, and Trenton skates away clean.”
“Keep your voice down.” Elliot’s eyes cut toward the double doors, his eyebrows rising high on his face.
“No,” I crammed the rest of my gear into the bag and ripped the zipper shut. “Aleksey is gone. He looked me in the face and said I was a distraction, grabbed his bag, and walked.”
Elliot scoffed, a short, harsh exhale. He shook his head, his mouth twisting into something halfway between disgust and disbelief. “And youactuallybought that?”
