I nod, grinding the joint under my shoe, sparks snuffed out.
We walk side by side toward the glass doors of Pointe University. Students spill across the lot, groups laughing, music pulsingfrom somewhere deep inside the frat row. I ignore them. They’re nothing to me. Background noise.
The locker room reeks of sweat, deodorant, and something faintly metallic that always clings to hockey gear no matter how much detergent you drown it in. The overhead lights hum too bright, bouncing off chrome lockers, making the place feel like a holding pen before slaughter. Guys shout across the aisles, laughing too loud, slamming doors, already wound up for practice. The team is chaos and testosterone, the air humming with that mix of bravado and desperation that comes with knowing none of us are gods here yet. We’re sophomores, and it’s the end of the season. Pointe University isn’t a place where they hand you anything—you bleed for it, fight for it, or you’re nothing.
Jamie slides onto the bench beside me, peeling off his sweatshirt, smirking like he owns the room even though we both know he doesn’t. He thrives on the noise, the hierarchy, the chance to carve out space. I pull my skates from my bag, run my thumb along the blade, grounding myself in the routine. It’s always been like this. Hockey has been the one place where I can forget the rest of it, at least for a while.
Coach storms in, voice sharp as a whip. “Gear up. We’ve got Blackridge this weekend, and if you think they’re going to play soft, you’re already beaten.” His eyes sweep the room like a blade. “This isn’t high school anymore, boys. You either step up or you’ll be riding the bench until your scholarships dry up. Understood?”
A chorus of yes, coach rattles the walls, loud and eager. I mutter it too, but my phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me out of the moment. I glance at the screen. One message.
Call me now.
The name on the screen makes my gut twist. Uncle Victor. My hand tightens around the phone until my knuckles blanch. A shiver slides down my spine, cooling the buzz still lingering in my veins.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, drag my hoodie over my head, and start lacing up.
Jamie notices, leaning in. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” My voice is too flat, too quick.
Coach claps his hands, barking for everyone to hit the ice. The room surges into motion, guys grabbing helmets and sticks, the air vibrating with adrenaline. Jamie rises, tapping his stick against my shin. “You coming?”
“In a minute.” My voice feels hollow in my throat. He frowns but doesn’t push, jogging after the others as the door slams shut behind him. The room falls quiet except for the hum of the vents.
I pull my phone back out, thumb hovering for a second before I hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Then his voice, smooth as gravel, fills my ear. “Where are you?”
“School.” I keep my tone casual, like it’s no big deal, like my stomach isn’t in knots.
“Did you do your drop this morning?”
“Yes.” My pulse kicks harder. He’ll want details. He always does.
“Tell me.”
I shut my eyes, lean back against the cold metal locker. “Courtyard of the Marriott downtown. Black Escalade waiting at the curb. Guy in a suit—didn’t even flinch when I handed him the envelope. Councilman Reeves. Took it like he’s done it a thousand times. Didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word.”
There’s a pause on the line. Then a low chuckle. “Good. The man knows his place.”
My stomach twists again. Reeves is on every billboard in this city, smiling for the cameras, preaching about family values. And here he is, hands out for dirty money like the rest of them.
“You’ve got another assignment,” Victor says, voice dropping lower. “Warehouse. Half an hour.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until warm-up ends. No way I make both.
“You listening to me, boy?” His voice hardens, a dangerous edge sliding in.
“Yes.” My grip on the phone aches.
“Good. Don’t be late.”
The line goes dead.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and grab my bag, breath coming fast. My uncle doesn’t make requests. He makes commands. Ignoring him isn’t an option.
I head down the hallway toward the rink, heart pounding like I’ve already played three periods. Coach catches sight of me at the doors, eyes narrowing. “Miles? You planning on showing up today?”
