I turn to walk away, but he jumps around me, blocking my path, his smirk stretching wider now. “Look. Some of us are having a party tonight. You should come hang out. Bring that mouth. I like the attitude.”
My grip tightens around my crate, the plastic digging into my fingers. Before I can respond, a hand clamps down on my arm. Confused, I glance to my left.
Alex.
He steps between us, his jaw clenched. The rival hockey captain doesn’t move, but the shift in the air is sharp enough to cut through bone.
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Alex seethes.
Aaron shrugs. “Didn’t know she was claimed. I mean I saw your name on her back but I didn’t think that was for real.”
Alex leans in, low and lethal. “Now you do.”
The guy finally backs off, holding his hands up in surrender. Alex turns to me, eyes still dark. He grips my wrist, pulling me away from the tunnel.
“Stay away from him.”
I yank away. “Let go of me.”
Alex doesn’t protest. Instead, he stalks away, opens the gate, and hits the ice.
At the edge of the tunnel, I look back at the bleachers. Gracie’s watching, sitting on the edge of her seat with a frown imprinted in place.
My phone buzzes again.
Roomie:What the hell was that?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALEX
The crowd is going crazy.
Tonight isn’t just for us—it’s for them. This gamehasbeen the most anticipated game of the season. The tension runs deep with Baymont. For years they’ve been our rival, and every year we’ve whooped their asses.
Of course, then we had Jackson. And now that he’s out, everyone is damn near betting against us. It’s bullshit. Every player on this team is the reason we’re at the top of our sport, one of the best in the country. Not just Kincaid.
I know that. We know that.
But the lack of faith seeps deep, so deep that the team has been on edge for weeks. Tonight’s not just about getting to nationals. It’s about proving that I’m a damn good captain and can lead a badass team, with or without Jackson. It’s about finally getting my father to see me. Not the player, not a commodity—but his son.
“Let’s go, Knights,” someone shouts from the stands, and the cheering commences. As the seconds tick on, more fans join in until they’re so loud I can barely register the words.
Across the rink, the opposing team’s faces twist into smirks and sneers. They don’t look rattled. If anything, they look amused. Like we’re just background noise in their highlight reel.My sights land on Aaron. He slaps the backs of his hands against his teammate’s shoulders, jutting his chin in our direction and saying something that makes him laugh.
My jaw ticks, the pressure building until my teeth ache. Aaron Walton has been—no,is—the biggest bane of my existence. Ever since we were kids, he and Jackson have found numerous ways to get us all in trouble.
Once upon a time, hewasa Knight. Until he fucked that up and nearly ruined our entire track two seasons ago. He’s smug. Reckless. And an asshole with a superiority complex. Acted like he was bigger than the program. Like rules didn’t apply to him. Like he belonged on a pedestal.
I know I’m bad, but he was worse. Much worse.
And with a penchant for dirty plays, Coach had no choice but to bench him. Hits from behind. Cheap shots. Late checks. Shit that could’ve ended careers. Aaron didn’t take the benching quietly, and neither did his father. The Walton name carries weight in this town, and they made sure to use it. They took to social media with a full-blown smear campaign against the school. Accusations. Edited footage.
“Blackballed for being too aggressive,”they’d claimed.
It almost worked. Almost.
It cost my father and the school thousands to clean it up before it could morph into a scandal. But even after we buried it, the stain stuck. His name was ruined. No team would touch him. He was a loose cannon, and a liability.
