Page 5

It was when he finally gave up, annoyed I’m sure with my lack of a response and practiced steely composure, that he turned back to the two sophomores he was walking with, not dropping his voice a hair as he spat, “It’s not just Rhys he hit. I heard the girl hasn’t shown her face in years. Must’ve scarred her up real bad—”

My fists were flying before the thought fully crossed my mind, and once it did, it only made me want to see his blood spill more. Maybe this was worse. Maybe this was only proof that I am exactly what they say that I am.

Still, even the memory of the way he cowered back from me as Bennett Reiner and Connor Mercer, the goalie and backup goalie, respectively, grabbed me off him is enough to pull a smile to my lips.

“How long am I out for?” I ask, itching to get the hell out of here, reaching forward for a few Kleenexes to catch the blood still flowing freely from my nose. “A game? Two?”

The papers in his hand crunch and he looks up.

I know Coach Harris has a soft spot for me, but I’m not sure why. He’s tried harder than all the others before him, going as far as allowing me to live in his basement because I transferred too late to apply for housing.

Maybe it’s part of the reason I push him, to see how far that soft streak stretches.

“If I could, I’d bench you for the season.”

The smile withers from my face, and I slump back heavily in my seat. I feel like a kid in the principal’s office, scolded and embarrassed.

“But”—Coach rubs at his eyes—“I’ve got too many changes coming in, and with the new staffing I don’t want anyone questioning me.”

Code for: I don’t want anyone asking me about you, about your behavior, and why I tolerate it.

I know why he tolerates it. I’m the best defenseman he’s had in the last ten years. He’s told me before, when he tried encouragement as his main tactic to get through to me. That one didn’t work much either.

My reputation wasn’t always this. Once upon a time, I was the best defenseman. The top prospect out of high school, most people thought I’d go number one pick in the draft, and if not, a top five slot was nearly guaranteed. And then it all disappeared, the rug swept out from under me by the same man who’d laid it there for me in the first place.

I’m still just as talented on the ice, enough that coaches have taken chances on me they might not have with other players. But there’s a piece I’m almost sure I’m missing when it comes to Harris, an underlying reason he pulled me here, knowing what I’d done to his captain, to his entire team, during the last Frozen Four.

I didn’t want to come here, but I didn’t have a choice. And I think Harris knew that.

He’d spent the summer working with me privately, while I waited for the other shoe to drop. It just never did. One full semester in, and I think he’s nearly sure he made a mistake bringing me on. He needed a defenseman, and I was desperate. But I know at any moment, he could find someone else, get rid of me easily. It kept me constantly on edge, too afraid to relax, to get comfortable.

I’d made that mistake one too many times.

There’s a knock at the door, Coach calling lightly for whoever it is to enter.

Golden-boy Rhys Koteskiy, our “can-do-no-wrong” center and captain, who plays just as well off the ice as on, enters the room. Hockey protégé, son of an NHL Hall of Famer. He’s had a silver stick in his hand since he could stand on ice.

It’s safe to say we don’t get along—and never will. Not just because of our chafing personalities, but more because of my infamous hit on him last year during the Frozen Four.

Like it always does, my stomach rolls at the sight of him—a mix of fury and something else I don’t dare try to name. For a moment, I can almost hear the sound of him hitting the ice. Of his team screaming—

I close my eyes tight and shake my head. Stop. Focus.

“Sorry to interrupt.” He grins, dark brown waves damp and tucked back behind his ears, face clean-shaven like he just finished grooming up. I want to ask him if he did his nails, too, but I bite my tongue nearly until it bleeds.

“What do you need, son?”

Son. My fists clench against the wood until my unhealed knuckles break open again.

I’ve tried desperately to shut it down. To kill the piece of myself that attempts to flourish when Harris calls me that word. But to hear it applied to Rhys burns out all the warmth that lingers when it’s just Harris and myself.

“New staff is here for your meeting. I let them know you were busy . . .” He lets his eyes glide over me, but I keep my attention on my hands and tearing the bloody tissue to bits. Of course he did. If allowed, he’d throw a parade for every one of my screwups.

Fuck him.

“Where’s your pretty little figure skater?” I finally turn in the chair to look at him. “Need any rescuing?”

I know Rhys won’t blow up; his calm demeanor is ingrained in his very being. But Sadie, his girlfriend, is very off-limits. His hand holding the door displays white knuckles enough to know I’ve gotten under his skin. Now, I want to see if I can make him crack.