And right then, I know. I don’t have proof, but Iknow.
Coach clears his throat. “We’ll all go see him tomorrow, after morning practice. He’s at St. Luke’s. Bring something, cards, whatever—just don’t show up acting like idiots.”
There’s a murmur of agreement. Someone cracks a joke about bringing beer. Coach glares and the laughter dies quick.
Then he blows the whistle again. “Alright, back to work. We still have a game to win.”
“Against North River,” Cal says, spinning his stick. “They’re still loaded this year.”
“Loaded and dirty,” Tanner adds.
Coach nods. “Yeah, and don’t think I didn’t notice their little stunt postponing the last match. Probably wanted time to buy themselves a few new ringers. Bunch of cheaters.”
That earns a few snorts and groans from the guys. Someone mutters about North River’s captain being a walking foul.
“Exactly,” Coach says. “So we need discipline. Which means no more ofthis—” he gestures between Miles and me, “—crap. You two want to fight, take it outside my rink.”
I nod stiffly.
Miles smirks but doesn’t say a word.
We skate back to our positions. The ice feels colder now, the air heavier. Every move I make feels mechanical, my focus fraying at the edges. The sound of pucks slamming against boards echoes like gunfire in my head.
At one point, I glance toward Miles. He’s laughing with one of the defensemen, tapping his stick against the ice, pretending like nothing happened. But I see the small cut on his lip and the satisfaction in his eyes.
My nose still aches. I taste iron every time I swallow.
Ryan’s accident replays in my mind—motorbike, late at night, “lucky to be alive.” It doesn’t add up. Ryan drives a vespa for fuck sake. Who the hell would hit a man riding a vespa?
Miles. Miles who almost beat the shit out of Ryan for approaching Chloe.
This dumbass. Does he understand how badly this could have gone if someone had seen him?
Ryan comes from a wealthy family from what I hear.
Miles’s interest in Chloe will get us all in trouble. Because if he goes down for this, I am definitely, one way or another getting dragged right alongside him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I don’t need that kind of heat, and neither does he. I should punch more sense into him for risking us…and our families.
I try to focus on drills, on the rhythm of passing and skating and shooting, but the thought keeps circling back.Miles had something to do with it and we are so very fucked.
When Coach finally calls it, everyone’s exhausted. Sweat clings under my pads, my lungs burn, and the tension hasn’t left my shoulders since the fight.
“Good work,” Coach says, tone flat. “Hit the showers. No one’s dying today, so I’ll call that a win.”
The guys laugh weakly.
Miles passes me on his way off the ice. “Nice swing,” he mutters, low enough only I can hear.
I don’t look at him. I just skate the other way, jaw tight, every instinct in me screaming to hit him again.
Instead, I head toward the bench, pull off my helmet, and wipe at the blood drying under my nose. The sting grounds me. The anger simmers low but steady, a hum beneath my skin.
Coach catches my eye from across the rink. “Try not to break anyone else today, Crest.”
I nod once. “Yes, Coach.”
