“Welcome to rivalry night,” I yell back, trying to smile.
The Hawks have been one of Kolmont’s long-standing in-state rivalries. They’re close enough that both fan bases fill the stands. Summer and I made the drive to watch Clay at his first game.
We barely had time to grab coffee on our way here. We’re lucky we made it in time. The parking lot was already full.
Clay stands near the bench in a suit and tie. He still carries that same formidable air about him that he had when he played. Even from here, I can see the tension in his jaw and the restlessness in the way he rocks his feet side to side, watching the players.
He folds and unfolds his arms, leans down to bark something at one of the players, and runs a hand through his hair when thepuck gets pinned in the corner. He’s all control until he’s not, and even I can feel it brewing from here.
The Hawks are playing dirty with slashes behind the ref’s back and hits a second too late. Every play, the Kings grind for an inch, and the Hawks make them work for it. Kolmont keeps their heads up, though, staying disciplined and not letting the Hawks bait them. For now, control wins over rage.
I should be watching them play, but I can’t stop my attention from shifting to him.
He’s calm, but only on the surface. Beneath it, he’s wound tight enough to break.
“Hey,” Summer says, leaning closer. “You okay?”
I nod, but my throat feels dry. I can’t explain it, but I can’t seem to shake the unsettling feeling that something is going to happen tonight.
Summer’s phone buzzes first, then mine, almost in unison. I don’t bother checking it, but I do notice when people start motioning toward me, pointing their phones at us like they’re snapping a photo. Whispers start to spread, and I can feel it when I hear someone mention Evan’s name.
Clay and Evan are both well-known in the hockey world, both having played at Kolmont only to move on to the NHL.
Summer’s face pales, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Tess…” she says quietly, holding out her phone.
Across the top of the screen, the headline is printed in bold font:
Kolmont’s New Coach Caught in Scandal – Clay Barlowe is Dating Brother’s Ex
Back on the ice, the Hawks’ coach doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. He leans close to his assistant, says something behind hishand, and both of them laugh. His gaze cuts back to Clay like he’s already watching him unravel.
And the worst part? They know exactly how to do it.
The Hawks have been under his skin since college. Every time they faced him, they chose to make it personal by taunting him until Clay lost his temper and dropped his gloves. I still remember reading those headlines after it was announced he was suspended for a second time.
Kolmont’s Crown Cracked: Barlowe’s Temper Strikes Again
Barlowe Faces Second Suspension Following Hawks Rivalry Clash
They haven’t forgotten. And now that he’s on the other side of the glass, wearing a suit instead of a jersey, they’re desperate to do it all again.
My stomach twists when the chants start coming. “Hot-head Bar-lowe! Hot-head Bar-lowe!”The crowd doesn’t even seem to care about the game anymore. It’s like they’re pushing to get under Clay’s skin.
Kolmont’s forward loses the puck on a sloppy turnover, and one of the Hawks players snags it, skating past the bench with a smirk on his face. I don’t recognize him at first, not until I see the back of his jersey flash on the Jumbotron. Maxwell Kraft, the brother of Mitchell Kraft, who used to play for the Hawks. The same Mitchell who blindsided Clay in college, sending him crashing shoulder-first into the boards, and took him out of the playoffs. The same one who smirked in the press after and said,“Guess Barlowe finally learned what happens when you lose control.”
He slows just enough as he passes, looking right at Clay. I can’t make out what he says, but his wide grin is enough for the cameras. Whatever it was must’ve pissed Clay off, too.
The arena eats it up.
Clay doesn’t move, but I can see the war in his eyes when they shift the camera over to him. His hand curls around the edge of the boards. His jaw locks. The muscle in his cheek tics. He doesn’t look at Maxwell, but every inch of him is screaming with restraint.
Summer grabs my arm, nails biting through my sleeve. “They’re baiting him,” she says, the frustration evident in her tone.
“I know,” I whisper. My heart’s in my throat.
The puck drops again, and the Hawks push once more, this time only harder. They continue to get away with their dirty plays, and it’s like the refs only turn a blind eye. The crowd roars louder, and I can tell Kolmont is starting to fray around the edges.
Clay paces behind the bench, barking orders, keeping his hands locked behind his back like it’s the only thing holding him together. The players keep glancing at him, waiting for the temper they’ve all heard stories about.
