Chapter 1
Declan
Leftskatefirst.Always.
The blade’s edge whispers cold against my fingers as I guide my foot into the boot. Heel locked. I yank the laces. The rough texture bites into my skin, each tug a reminder of the control I crave.
Right hand over left. Pull until my knuckles whitewash. Until pain bites like a betrayal. Right hand over left. Pull until it hits that familiar, calibrated burn. A necessary pain. Too loose is a liability. Too tight is a dead foot by the second period.
No margin for error.
Control is the only thing that’s ever felt real in this chaos. The only constant I trust.
Bass thrums through the concrete floor, vibrating in my teeth. The locker room isn't just a room; it's a cauldron bubbling with testosterone and adrenaline. Shouts ricochet off the tile—a cacophony of eagerness and fear. Gio’s booming laugh echoes off the lockers, a jarring sound that slashes through the tension.
Rylan and Calder yell over each other, voices blending into a chaotic symphony. The violent rip of tape sounds like a gunshot—a warning fired in the heat of battle. Across the room, Dante Voss and his shadow, Cole, sit fully geared and silent. Always the same pregame ritual. Chaos in every corner except theirs.
I shut it out. Brick by invisible brick, I build my sanctuary within the storm.
Mine.My space. My silence. This stillness becomes the only place I can breathe. Noise is a predator lurking just beyond my armor. It can’t get through my pads. It doesn’t stop a one-timer from the slot.
Leg pads next. Buckle one—plastic clasp clicking shut, anchoring me in place. Buckle two—Velcro hissing as I yank it tight across my calf, pressure settling like a possessive grip. Chest protector follows; cold plates mold to me, a second skin shielding against the outside world.
By the time I drag my jersey over the pads, brushing rough fabric across my arms, I’m sealed in. This isn't just gear. It’s construction. Each strap is a lock on a cage. The one place no one gets inside.
“Jesus, Reid.”
I don’t look up. Dark energy leaks from the stall beside mine. Adrian. His laces scrape, sharp and efficient. A reminder of the predator he is.
“You miss one strap, the world ends?” he mutters—the same jab as always, laced with familiarity and challenge.
“My crease, my rules, Cap.” The words land flat. A warning. A declaration of territory.
A humorless exhale. “Just checking.”
A beat stretches between us. Thick. Charged. A taut wire ready to snap. Then his tone drops, losing its edge.
“You good?” Not a question. A command.Be good.
“I’m good.”
“Good.” Final.
He grabs his helmet and disappears toward the tunnel, a navy-and-silver shadow leading the charge. He always gets it. We’re sons of tyrants—different chains, same leash. Adrian is tied to family. I’m tied to a contract that feels signed in blood, binding me to a fate I didn’t choose.
I finish the straps. My phone vibrates on the shelf—a discordant buzz against wood. My jaw tightens.
Beatrice.A text I won’t read.
Another buzz.
Father.A text I refuse to see.
I peel my right glove halfway off, sweat-damp leather fighting me, and press my thumb to the power button. Cold metal bites, punishing my hesitation. My left glove stays on, making me clumsy, but I manage. The buzz dies. Silence folds back over me, returning with the kind of weight that feels earned. I stare at the dark screen a second too long before burying the phone deep in my duffel.
Out of sight. Out of reach. My glove slides back on, sealing the breach.
Blocker. Glove. My world funnels down to the sequence. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Blank slate. Empty mind. Inside that emptiness, everything finally lines up. Winter break behind us, January ice in the walls, the second half of the season pressing in.
