Chapter 17: Rinkmates: Chapter 17

As Mercer blows the whistle, signaling the start of the drill, I explode into action.

I dart across the ice with lightning speed, our goalie, Derek Devereaux, waits for me in front of the net as we practice for the upcoming game. With a swift flick of my wrist, I send a blistering slap shot toward the net.

The puck hurtles down the ice like a bullet fired from a cannon, leaving a trail of icy mist in its wake. Derek tracks the puck’s trajectory with laser focus, but there’s little time to react. As the puck approaches, it seems to accelerate, gaining speed with every passing millisecond. Its surface blurs, reflecting the glint of the arena lights like a shooting star streaking across the night sky. I watch Derek bracing himself, positioning his body, ready to make the save. But this shot is different, and I smile because I see it coming. It’s not just about velocity. It’s about deception. At the last moment, the puck seems to change course, veering off in an unexpected direction. It sails past Derek’s outstretched glove and—GOAL!

“Ha!” I yell, doing a little victory dance. “Lucky for you, you don’t have to play against me, huh,” I shout in his direction, meeting Derek’s enraged gaze.

He remains sprawled on the ice, frustration in every heavy breath he takes. Derek had been all talk since he joined us, boasting about his skills nonstop. Sure, he’s good, but not as great as he makes himself out to be, and it’s moments like these I relish—proving him wrong during practice.

“Keep it up, Huntington! One more!” Mercer’s booming voice echoes from the bench, urging us to keep going. He’s an old man by now, his hair white, his glasses stained, but he’s still a force to be reckoned with.

I was on the verge of gliding away to give the shot another attempt when the sound of Derek’s mocking scoff halts me in my tracks. Pausing, I pivot to face him as he rises to his feet again.

“Must be nice having everything handed to you, eh? First your spot on the Falcons, second an Olympic athlete as a girlfriend.” His snide voice cuts through my concentration like a knife. What did he say? “How much did your wealthy parents pay to get you a girlfriend like Liora James?”

I grit my teeth, staring at him while he adjusts his gloves. We had never gotten along. Not really. While my family indeed had used their connections to help me, Derek had clawed his way into the league without any assistance, and he has reminded me ever since.

I get it. I hate the fact my fucking parents paid for my career. But I will make a name for myself, without their help. It’s not just my parents who can claim my achievements. I am in control of my own destiny. At least that’s what my therapist engrained in my head a couple of days ago. They didn’t say Derek would become the best sniper in the league’s history. I will.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Devereaux,” I snap back, feeling his anger flare up.

Addressing stressors and teaching coping skills to manage stress effectively can reduce the frequency and intensity of anger episodes, my therapist’s voice rings in my head.

Coping skill number one: breathe. I take a deep, deep breath.

Skill number two: check your surroundings. I’m on the rink.

Skill number three: reframe your thoughts. This is frustrating, but I can find a way around it. His words hurt me, but it doesn’t mean they are true.

He chuckles and I take another deep breath, doing everything I can to force myself to speak past this threatening lump working up my throat. “You know what? I’m sorry, Der, let’s drop it. Please. We have to drill, let’s keep it up.”

“No,” he says, skating toward me. “I heard you. Jealousy, you said, huh? Hardly.” He smiles as if he finds the situation funny. I startle at this expression—it’s like a déjà vu from weeks ago in the bar against Houston. I had fun smashing his head just because he provoked me. I don’t want to be that person anymore, but the way Derek stands there, threatening me, brings back old feelings with no place to go.

I try to focus on something else—Liora. I nearly missed my alarm this morning. We ended up falling asleep on the couch, cuddling. It felt amazing. Really amazing. I played it cool, pretending I didn’t notice her slip away and practically bolt from the scene.

“I’ve worked hard for every inch of ice I’ve skated on, unlike…well, you.” He slips out of his gloves and drops them on the ice. “If I were you, I’d wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face after slap shots like that. It’s amazing you can score but not everyone has had their game handed to them on a silver platter like you have.” Closing the space between us, he pushes me—fuck, he actually pushed me. “Not everyone had the chance to practice with the best players and copy their style.”

My jaw clenches as I try to block out the insults.

Somehow, I manage to skate backward.

Breathe, Huntington. Breathe.

He saw a picture of Liora and got jealous—it has to be just that. We’re a team.

Skating back to keep the peace, my mind reels. I must focus or risk smashing that puck into his face.

As professional athletes, we’re expected to maintain composure and teamwork; disagreements are common under pressure, but fighting within our own team is unacceptable.

Breathing in and out, shaking off his idiocy—I glance toward Mercer, who’s already standing by the rink with arms crossed over his beer belly. He watches me with a stern face—counting possibilities silently.

Why isn’t he saying anything? If roles were reversed, he would have snarled at me already—fuck, I can’t snap now.

I swirl to the opposite end, my feet gliding over the frozen surface. Desperate to think about something other than those fucking words Derek said, I glance toward my other teammates. Some are stretching and warming up at the edge of the rink. Jayce, Colton, and some rookies do a stickhandling warm-up. They stand around a circle with two pucks and, on the whistle, two players start stickhandling around the circle. But Jayce’s face is tense, watching me, knowing something is wrong. I avoid making eye contact with him. He must have overheard the comments made earlier. But it’s Colton who screams my name.

“Everything all right?” he yells.

I hold an arm up, signaling him with a thumbs-up that I’m fine. I’m not though.

I hate feeling like a child, but I have nobody to blame except myself.

It’s understandable that my friends are concerned. I asked them to stop watching over me on the field because it affects their performances. I understand their desire to protect me and keep me on the team, but ultimately it’s my decision. If I can’t handle it, then I don’t deserve my spot on the team. And that’s probably why Mercer paired me with Derek today—to toughen me up.

I get ready for the next shot, expecting Derek to come back to his spot, but he’s still fuming, refusing to take his position. “Come on, Huntington, I guess it’s time to tell me. How much did your daddy pay to get you on our team?”

The rink goes dead quiet in a heartbeat, like it’s turned into some eerie ghost town. All eyes fix on me and Derek.

I hear Jayce swearing and the sharp scrape of blades.

But I’m already in a tunnel.

“What did you say?” I growl and skate toward Derek.

He grins, skating up to me as well, throwing his hands up in mock defense. “Just addressing what everyone thinks.”

“Who’s everyone?”

Hatred floods in like a rising tide, drowning out any sense of reason or compassion.

“Ri, let it be. I swear. Ri!” Jayce screams after me.

I slow down my pace, cursing under my breath. I think somewhere in the background, Colton swears in Russian, and fuck, I know I can’t hit him, no matter how much he deserves it. As their sniper, I am expected to score goals and not engage in physical altercations like defensemen or enforcers. Mercer is right. I can’t miss any more games. I’m vital for the team.

“The whole team thinks it,” Derek says.

“Stop lying, asshole,” Jayce yells, grabbing me and holding me back.

“Shut the fuck up,” Colton says somewhere behind me.

“Or what? He’ll have his family make me leave the team? They buy you everything, huh? Skill, a girlfriend, and your own team.” Derek sneers.

I stiffen up.

“Enough!” Mercer’s voice booms through the air, but my emotions have already spiraled out of control. Blind rage consumes me as I leap at Derek, Jayce and Colton’s frantic screams echoing around me. Their voices blend into a chaotic racket as I charge toward my own teammate.

But just as I’m about to reach him, I see Liora behind him.

I break.

Fuck. How did I miss her? When did she get here?

I skid to a halt mere inches from Derek, and Liora’s eyes meet mine, filled with fear—fear of me.

It pierces through my fury like a knife, slicing it into overwhelming sadness and shame. I freeze, every muscle in my body tensing.

No. She can’t look at me like that.

I want her to feel safe.

Time seems to stand still as I grapple with the horrifying realization.

And then, without warning, a sharp impact explodes across my face—and everything fades to black.