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I can feel eyes on us from the sidelines now. A few vets call out encouragement to Riot, eager to see the new kid put in his place. Their voices fade to white noise, narrowing my focus to the man in front of me.
Riot feints right, but I see through it, snatching the puck in mid-air with my stick. Before he can react, I send it sailing straight at his chest, putting my back into it. He catches it with a muffled thud, baring his teeth.
"Gonna play it that way, huh?"
His answering pass explodes off my hip. I grit my teeth against the blossom of pain and pass it back, twice as hard. He returns it without pause, nearly too fast to track.
Again and again we hammer it back and forth, brutal and relentless as each hit lands harder. The passes turn chaotic, control slipping as we struggle to one-up each other. All hints of practice or pacing are gone, lost in the red haze fogging my mind.
I'm dimly aware of Deck shouting at us to chill out. Vaguely feel the other guys falling back, cleared out of the warpath. None of it penetrates the singular focus zeroed in on my target.
Riot winds up with an icy glare, shoulders torquing like a cobra's back. He launches the puck right at my head—I dart left but misjudge the angle.
It clips my brow and I stumble, fire exploding through my skull. Sticky warmth trickles down my temple. I swipe it away reflexively, fingers coming back crimson.
The gym falls silent. Eyes swing between me and Riot, ripe with anticipation.
Blood roars in my ears, every cut and blow we've traded over the years swelling behind my eyes. A dangerous clarity sharpens my focus like broken glass—any last shred of restraint snaps like a fraying tether.
Launching forward, I drop my stick and tackle Riot around the middle. We crash to the ice in a tangle of fists and fury. Someone's grip closes around my biceps, but I shake them off, landing a right hook across Riot's jaw.
Suddenly, the hands dragging me back multiply. I'm dimly aware of voices yelling, harsh breaths and thudding hearts surrounding us. But all I see is Riot's face, bloody and savage, mirroring the tempest inside me.
"Enough!" Deck's booming voice cuts through the chaos as he shoves between us. "I said enough!"
We're both still breathing heavily, poised for the next hit. Deck puts a hand up, eyes blazing.
"What the hell is wrong with you two? We've barely started the season and you're already at each other's throats!"
I bite my tongue against a mean as fuck retort, the copper tang still coating my mouth. On the fringe of my vision, I see Riot's chest heaving, eyes stormy beneath his disheveled dark hair.
Coach stalks over with a scowl on his face that could win awards and jabs a finger at us. "I don't care what history you have, or whatever pissing contest you're locked in. On this team, you're teammates first and foremost."
He steps closer, radiating authority. "You either get your acts together and start cooperating, or you can kiss the roster goodbye. We clear?"
His steely eyes fix on us. "You're both damn lucky to be here. But make no mistake—if I see that shit again, you're benched. No player is indispensable."
Message received, loud and clear. As the adrenaline seeps from my veins, cold reality sets in. I'm here for one reason—to go pro. I can put up with Riot's crap, as much as it makes me seethe. Got no choice if I wanna make it.
Without another word, the coach pivots and blows his whistle. "Back in position! Anyone pulls something like that again and you're doing suicides till you puke. Now move!"
As the guys scramble to comply, Riot shoulders past me roughly. "This isn't over," he grits out under his breath. "Stay the hell out of my way."
I bite back a scathing retort and skate to the opposite end of the line, emotions still churning. But beneath the anger simmers an undercurrent of unease. However satisfying it felt in the moment to land those hits on Riot, I crossed a line. It could've cost me everything if the coach decided to make an example out of us.
I can't slip up again. Whatever issues fester between me and the golden boy, I've gotta keep my cool. Can't let Hollowgate become just another dead end.
The rest of practice passes in a grueling blur. By the end, everyone's wrecked and soaked in sweat, but the hostile tension has noticeably cooled. At least no one's gunning for outright bloodshed anymore.
After a long shower to wash off the grime and lingering adrenaline, I'm one of the last to leave the locker room. As I'm packing up my gear, Knight Maddox ambles over with an easy grin. He's one of the few who actually seems welcoming despite my chaotic start here. Helps that he’s a new transfer, too.
I’ve seen him on the ice and understand now why they call him "Shadow." His ability to suddenly appear and disappear on the ice is insane. He’s fast and sneaky as fuck.
"Hell of a first week, eh?" He bumps my shoulder. "If that's their version of a welcome, I'd hate to see what they’d do if they were hazing us."
I snort, the tension easing slightly. "Right? Nothing like good old-fashioned violence to break the ice."
"For real, though. You laid into Kensington pretty hard back there." His voice holds no judgment, just friendly amusement. "I'm gonna guess you two have some history?"
