4. Cooper

4

Cooper

T he audacity of that girl. She stood out like a swan among ducks, with her blonde hair cascading down like spun gold and those pale green eyes, wide and unblinking, staring up at me. Porcelain skin, so pristine and untouched it looked as though she'd never felt the kiss of the sun. The way she had confronted me about "conflict resolution" was almost comical.

Almost.

I chuckled to myself; the sound echoing off the locker room walls as I grabbed my gear. The little girl had marched up to me with a courage I didn't expect from someone who seemed so sheltered. And yet, there she was, stepping into my world like she owned it.

I shook my head as I walked out into the biting cold that led to Pandora's Box, the campus ice rink that I had known ten years ago. The crunch of snow beneath my boots grounded me in the present moment, away from that bizarre encounter. The rink was where I could forget about scars—both the ones on my face and those less visible.

Pushing through the doors, I was greeted by the familiar chill and the sharp scent of fresh ice. This place always managed to calm the storm inside me. Strapping on my skates, I could feel every worry start to slip away.

The ice beckoned, a sheet of glassy perfection waiting for my blades to carve it up. As I glided onto the rink, power surged through my legs. With each stroke, speed built up, wind whipping past my ears and drowning out any remnants of that earlier frustration.

The girl might have been an unexpected thorn in my side today, but out here? Out here I was in control. Out here, nobody could touch me—not even a blonde with eyes like spring leaves and skin like fine china.

Today, the rink was my sanctuary, a rare place of solitude where the echo of my skates against the ice was the only sound that mattered. Finals week had emptied the place, leaving it as barren and as still as a frozen pond at dawn. I relished the silence, feeling it seep into my bones, offering a kind of peace that eluded me in other parts of my life.

The crisp air filled my lungs as I carved figure eights into the untouched surface. The rink was mine alone; there were no expectations, no prying eyes, just the purity of the ice and the freedom it offered.

Drifting towards the lobby to grab a bottle of water, I caught the blare of a TV against the stillness. It was like a siren shattering the calm sea, an unwelcome intrusion. The NHL Network's theme jolted me back to reality.

"…now we speak to Ashley Benson, the ex-fiancée of Cooper Sinclaire."

My grip tightened around the neck of the water bottle. There she was on-screen, her honey-brown hair styled in loose waves that framed her perfectly made-up face. Ashley had always known how to present herself, with those brown eyes and a smile that could light up any room—but only when cameras were rolling.

Of fucking course. Anger flared within me like a match struck in darkness.

I should've known they'd drag me through the mud after what they did to Bradley when his marriage ended. The media vultures were never satisfied; they craved drama like it was oxygen.

"You were in the suites during that fateful game February 29. Can you tell us what happened?" The host's voice was syrupy sweet, laced with faux concern.

Ashley inhaled sharply, her act as polished as ever. "Coop has always had a temper," she began, her voice soft yet calculated. "I loved him despite it. But I've never seen him lose it like that. I'm going to be honest, Becky. I was scared."

Coop.

That name on her lips felt like betrayal. It was reserved for teammates and true friends—people who'd been through hell and back with me—not someone who'd turned her back when things got tough.

She didn't deserve to call me Coop. Not anymore.

The screen flickered as Becky's sympathetic gaze bore into Ashley's perfectly poised demeanor. "I can only imagine," Becky said. "Did you know he was capable of something that… violent?"

"Absolutely not," Ashley responded, her voice laced with feigned shock. "Right after it happened, I told Cooper we were through. I couldn't justify that kind of violence, even in a game."

The way she said my name, as if it left a sour taste in her mouth, made my skin crawl. I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me like a geyser ready to erupt.

"Actually," I muttered, "you left me the second Texas dropped me. But let's not worry about the details."

"I've heard rumors say Matthews was speaking about you in a disparaging manner," Becky prodded.

"Even if that's true," Ashley said with a dismissive wave of her hand, "he doesn't have to resort to that. It's unnecessary. And quite frankly, it demeans this great sport."

"Fucking gold digging cunt," I muttered under my breath, my hands balling into fists at my sides. With a sharp turn, I faced away from the TV.

At that precise moment, the door creaked open and John Walker sauntered in. He carried himself with an air of quiet confidence that annoyed the fuck out of me.

"Fuck," I breathed out, slamming the water bottle onto the nearest table.

"Do I even want to know why you decided to antagonize Callum Bronson today?" Walker asked, his tone even but edged with exasperation.

I leaned against the wall, letting out a slow breath. "The little shit was getting handsy with a girl who must have been mute because she couldn't say no," I drawled.

Walker rolled his eyes at my explanation. His patience seemed to stretch thin as he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for me to continue. "You ready for today?"

"Ready for what?" I shot back, my glare meant to cut through whatever bullshit Walker had planned for me.

Walker just smirked, a look that told me he was enjoying this far too much. "I think I'm going to watch you today," he said.

"Oh, joy," I replied dryly. "Can't wait."

"Get on your knees," he commanded, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Help these kids lace up their skates. It'll be a humbling experience for you."

I clenched my jaw, my fists itching for something to hit. But I couldn't let him win this little game of his.

Walker just laughed and settled himself onto the bleachers, clearly unbothered by my biting retort.

As the door creaked open and a couple of kids trickled in, my stomach sank.

Fuck , I thought, this is going to be the longest goddamn day of my life.

A stream of eighteen and nineteen-year-olds filed into the rink, a mess of fresh faces and nervous energy. They wore their school colors proudly, yet their posture betrayed a collective uncertainty. The boys were all sharp angles and awkward strides, while the girls huddled together like birds seeking safety in numbers.

"Go change in the locker rooms," I directed, gesturing toward the corridor. "You can't skate in your uniforms. Go on. When you're done, come to the skating counter."

They shuffled off, some casting glances my way—curiosity and caution warring in their eyes.

Leaning my forearms on the skating desk, I caught a couple of them staring not-so-subtly at my face. The scars must've seemed like a story written in a foreign language to them.

"At least take me out on a date first," I quipped with a smirk.

They snapped their gazes away, cheeks coloring as they hurried to the locker room amidst hushed whispers.

They streamed back into the rink like a gaggle of geese, decked out in gear that still bore the creases of disuse. The skates were piled high on the counter, a mountain of leather and steel. I grabbed the stack and slammed it down with more force than necessary.

"Line up and grab a pair," I barked, watching them flinch at my tone. Where the fuck was the kid who ran the skate counter Mondays? "Make sure they fit snug."

A scrawny kid with glasses that sat too low on his nose picked up a pair and shoved his feet inside. He winced as he stood, looking like he might topple over at any second.

"These are too tight," he whined, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"They're supposed to be," I shot back, crossing my arms over my chest. "Skates aren't slippers. You want them tight so your feet don't slide around."

"But—"

"No buts," I cut him off. "Sit down. I'll show you how to lace 'em up properly."

I grabbed a skate from the counter and dropped into a crouch in front of him, my knees popping in protest. The kid watched me warily as I yanked the laces tight from the bottom up, giving each eyelet an extra tug for good measure.

"You want to pull them tight enough to cut off circulation?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

I glanced up at him through narrowed eyes. "You want to try skating with loose skates? Be my guest. But when you're face down on the ice, ankles snapped like twigs, don't come crying to me."

He swallowed hard and nodded, his earlier bravado gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Start at the bottom," I instructed as I worked. "Pull each section tight as you go up. When you get to the ankle, make it snugger—this is where you need the most support."

The rest of them had gathered around now, watching intently as if I were performing some kind of magic trick.

"Then you cross your laces—" I demonstrated with deliberate movements, "—like this and finish with a bow at the top. Not rocket science." I stood up and dusted off my hands. "Now you try."

I stood there, watching the kids fumble on the goddamn lobby like fawn. It was painful, the way they wobbled and flailed, each step a disaster waiting to happen. I had to bite back the urge to bark at them to get their act together. This was worse than any punishment I'd ever endured, worse than sitting in a cell for a night after a bar fight—watching incompetence on ice.

As the door to the rink swung open again, a gust of cold air burst through, and with it came... her. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, or maybe from rushing over, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she panted out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "My final went long and..." Her voice trailed off when her eyes met mine.

I couldn't help it—I smirked at her, tilting my head to the side. Watching her squirm was more entertaining than the disaster in front of me.

"Hello again," she greeted with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the cold wall of the rink, my gaze never leaving hers. "Well, look what we have here," I said.

Her smile wavered as she clutched her bag tighter to her side. "The locker rooms?"

"Down the hall," I said.

"Thank you." She turned and headed to where they were.

This… might not be as bad as I thought.

Blondie returned, her presence a stark contrast to the awkward tension hanging over the ice. She strode towards me, her gait steady despite the cacophony of slips and stumbles from the newbies. "I'd like 7's, please," she requested, her voice a smooth melody against the discordant backdrop.

I nodded, fetching the skates without a word. I watched as she settled onto a bench, removing her shoes with deliberate care. Next to her, a girl grappled with her skate, her face twisted in frustration. Blondie leaned over, her hands gentle as she began to assist.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. With a sigh that came from deep within, I strode over to them. "All right, bleeding heart," I said, a touch of mockery lacing my tone. "Leave her be."

Her hands stilled as she looked up at me, confusion etched across her features. "I was just trying to help," she defended herself, the politeness in her voice clashing with the agitation flickering in her eyes.

"She doesn't need help," I countered firmly. "She needs to struggle. It's the only way you actually learn."

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she maintained her composure. "No, it's not," she replied evenly. "If that's the case, why is there school? Books? Tests?"

I leaned in closer, my stance unyielding. "Fuck books and fuck school."

"What?" The way her eyes went even wider made me laugh.

"You heard me, sugar," he said.

"But everyone learns differently," she insisted, her voice rising just enough to show her conviction without losing that infuriating politeness.

"So?" I asked. "That's a them-problem, not a me-problem. Coddling someone won't make them stronger."

She straightened up, facing me squarely. "It's not coddling to offer guidance," she argued.

"And it's not guidance to do it for them," I shot back.

Her gaze never wavered as she met my challenge head-on. "There's a difference between guiding and doing," she said firmly. "Maybe if you tried it sometime, you'd see that."

Our eyes locked in a heated exchange; neither of us willing to back down as the air between us crackled with unspoken challenges yet to be met.

"Since you know how to tie skates, why don't you show everyone how, hmm?" I asked her, my voice laced with a challenge as I waved at her. "Go on then. Show them."

She sucked in a breath, her eyes widening slightly as if I'd caught her off guard. "Well, I've never..."

"Never?" I echoed, leaning in a bit closer with mock curiosity. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've never actually tried on skates," she admitted.

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth as I dropped to my knees in front of her without warning and took hold of the skates. My fingers brushed against her calves as I pulled the laces tight, weaving them with practiced ease. She seemed frozen in place, caught off guard by the sudden proximity.

When I finished lacing up the skates, I moved back and looked up at her. "You know how to lace up your skates now?" I asked.

The girl glared at me, the fire in her eyes betraying her calm demeanor.

"Didn't think so, sweetheart," I said with a dismissive shrug.

"Thank you for your help," she said stiffly, her words carrying an edge of forced politeness.

"You shouldn't be thanking me," I replied coolly as I stood up and brushed off my knees. "I didn't help you. I hurt you. You might have skates on, but you still don't know shit."

Her expression tightened. "I'm trying to be polite," she retorted.

"And I'm telling you I don't care," I shot back with a nonchalant wave of my hand. "Now, get on the ice, and for the love of God, don't fucking fall. I don't need more paperwork."