I don’t like other people writing the script and handing me a role. My parents tried to do that for years, and they became a distant ghost in my life.
Tell me to do something, and I’ll tear it down out of spite. It’s just how I am.
I should’ve torched the whole plan. Should’ve told the board to shove their strategy up their collective ass. Should’ve let that storm burn out on its own.
But then she walked in, and all that evaporated. Which pisses me off even more, because it means I’m complicit.
That I want this.
Her.
And I’d rather choke on a branding iron than admit that.
Call it childish, but I’d rather lie to myself six different ways than admit I’m okay with a narrative someone else is controlling.
The slap of tape against sticks echoes off the walls. Showers hiss behind closed doors, and someone’s blasting old Drake from a speaker.
Practice is done. Jace is bitching about a stick check that didn’t get called, Matt’s towel-whipping rookies in the corner, Tanner’s yelling about someone stealing his protein bar, and Addams is holding court, re-enacting a fight from last season with zero accuracy and way too much pelvic thrusting.
I’m half-listening, half-texting Tinnie for the fiftieth time like a desperate ex.
No update.
Still no word from Jessica.
Not a single fucking condition from her end, and it’s eating at me like acid under my skin.
“You know, you could just ask for the girl’s number and call her,” Jace mutters next to me.
I shoot him a look.
“So that’s a no, then.” He grins.
My phone goes dark. So does my patience.
“I need everyone’s attention.” The room rumbles with the sound of a deep voice.
The noise in the locker room recalibrates. Voices drop, and movement ceases.
Guys start shifting, turning, adjusting their focus to our goalie.
Zed Mercer.
Six foot seven of go-fuck-yourself aura and ink.
His black hair is pushed back, damp from the shower, a few strands falling messily across those unnatural eyes—light greenish-blue and eerie as hell. His neck is covered in tattoos. So are his knuckles, his hands, his ribs, his back, and God knows what else.
He walks past the rookies and they part like the Red Sea. This is his second season with us, but I know him from before. Back in juniors, Zed was the sun—loud enough to make coaches roll their eyes but never told to shut up. He used to call me Dommy just to piss me off.
He used to make every practice feel like a party. Now? He barely talks.
Addams lowers the volume on the speaker and sits next to Matt. Zed stands near the whiteboard with his arms crossed, tattoos flexing as he looks around the room. He’s played with us for a year now, and in that entire time, I can count on one hand how many times he’s addressed the whole room. And every time, we won.
“It’s the Lions next,” he says, voice deep and measured. “I played for them when I first got into the league. I know how they operate.” Every word is chosen, weighed, sharpened.
“May I, Captain?” He glances at me with a look that’s not asking; it’s informing.
I nod for him to keep going.
