Be downstairs in 5. We're leaving for practice.
I let out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a dying walrus. Then I shoot back a quick reply.
ME
Yeah, yeah. Be there in a minute.
Before shoving my phone away, I open my chat with Caroline. My last message is still sitting there, unread, mocking me.
A heavy breath rattles out of me — not just a sigh, but the kind that feels like deflating a balloon straight from your chest — before I drag myself up, grab my navy hoodie from the chair, and pull it on.
Sweatpants. Sneakers. Duffel over my shoulder.
Captain Whipped, reporting for duty.
I head downstairs to meet Liam, the twins, and Kentaro for the drive to the rink. Elijah's already there, because of course he is — Captain Perfect never misses early warmup.
The last whistle finally blows and practice wraps. Most of the guys are already heading off the ice, chirping and laughing about who's buying drinks at La Playa.
Kentaro? He's still in the crease. Just standing there like a damn statue.
I clocked it earlier - he was off his game all practice. Way off.
Normally the guy's a brick wall. You can fire fifty pucks at him and maybe,maybeone sneaks through. Today? It was like shooting on an empty net. Half the shots went in, and every time Coach Hopper blew the whistle, he was screaming at Kentaro to lock in, reset, focus up.
Didn't do a thing. Kentaro just stayed back there with that permanent scowl, shoulders hunched like he was dragging a thundercloud around with him. Broody as hell.
I can't just let that go.
I rip my helmet off, hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, and skate toward him. Elijah's over by the net with him, saying something low. Kentaro just nods, jaw tight, and Elijah gives him a quick hair ruffle before skating off toward the tunnel.
I coast to a stop right in front of the crease, stick dragging lazy figure-eights on the ice.
"Everything okay, man?" I ask, chest still heaving from the last drill. "You weren't yourself today. Felt like half those pucks just... sailed past you."
Kentaro grabs his water bottle off the top of the net, tips his head back, and squeezes a long pull before answering. Sweat's running down the side of his face, dripping off his chin, but he doesn't even bother wiping it.
"Yeah," he says finally, voice flat as the ice under our skates. "Sorry about that. Just... talked to my dad earlier. And like always, he managed to tank my entire fucking mood."
I arch a brow, leaning on my stick. "Damn. How'd he get through to you?"
Kentaro never answers his dad's calls - not unless he's in the mood to hear the same speech on repeat.Come back to Japan. Step up. You're my only heir.It's always the same lecture, the same demand.
And honestly, it's not like I blame him for dodging. Azuma Holdings isn't just some mom-and-pop store - it's a full-blown empire. Department stores across Asia, luxury malls in Tokyo and Osaka.
Kentaro's been groomed since birth to take the throne, but it's never been the life he wanted. That's why he moved to Florida after his parents' divorce, why he picked ice rinks over boardrooms.
But his dad? Six years later, the guy still refuses to take the hint. Stubborn as hell. Worse than Kentaro.
Every time they talk, it ends the same: his dad barking orders, Kentaro gritting his teeth and saying no. So yeah, ignoring the calls is easier than letting the guy wind him up.
Not that Kentaro ever talks about it. Hell, we only know because last year he got blackout drunk after playoffs and spilled everything in the locker room.
Kentaro tips back the last of his water before saying, "He didn't call this time. Showed up at the Pond earlier. Said if I wouldn't pick up the phone, he'd hunt me down himself. Guess he wasn't kidding."
My brows shoot up. "He what?"
"Yeah." Kentaro's jaw flexes. "Said he was done wasting time trying to talk sense into me over the phone. Wanted to look me in the eye when he dropped his'big proposition.'"
