6. Cooper

6

Cooper

I watched Everly talk to the skate guy, a frown etched on my face. Her presence bothered me, and not for the obvious reasons.

After she disappeared into the locker rooms, Walker walked over to me. "Well?" he asked.

I whipped around to glare at him. "Why the fuck is Hawthorne's daughter my student? Don't you think that's a conflict of interest?"

"I forget," Walker said, his tone nonchalant. "Did she do anything to you personally? You're going to have to understand the world doesn't revolve around you, Cooper. You'll deal with people you don't want to." He pointed down the hall. "That girl is like a daughter to me."

"Well, she has to be a daughter to someone, doesn't she?" I quipped, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Walker clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening. "She's a good girl."

I scoffed. "She's a stupid one. Who let her out of her cage? She just agreed to a frat party. A fucking frat party. They're going to eat her alive."

Walker glanced at Zack, who was busy putting away the skates. "Zack Manson? He's a good kid."

"You're right," I said, my tone mocking. "Do me a favor, though. When you're woken up because campus police have to take a rape report because some asshole took her virginity, I want to tattoo idiot on your forehead."

"I guess it's a good thing you'll be going," Walker said, his eyes tracking Everly's shadow behind the frosted glass.

"What?" I asked, my voice flat, not bothering to mask my annoyance.

"Go supervise," he said with a smirk that I wanted to wipe off his face. "No one is going to say no to Cooper Sinclaire."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm too old for frat parties," I muttered under my breath.

"You were never in a frat," Walker pointed out, unfazed by my irritation. "And that's rich, considering you weren't too old to beat someone almost to death."

A grunt was all I offered in response, the memory sour on my tongue. My eyes stayed fixed on the locker rooms, imagining scenarios I had no control over.

"She's staying on campus for break," Walker continued, as if reading from a script designed to torture me. "If she wants to skate, you let her skate."

I rolled my eyes again. "So babysitting is part of my job description now?"

"You do whatever the hell I tell you to do is part of your job description," he retorted. "Maybe she'll rub off on you."

"Or maybe I'll corrupt her," I mused darkly.

Walker smirked, that damn knowing look on his face again. "Doubtful," he said. "Everly is the most polite kid I've met. She may be overprotected and new to this, but she's not a pushover."

Narrowing my eyes at him, I saw right through his facade. "You're doing this on purpose," I accused. "To fuck with me."

He chuckled and clapped me on the back with a force that suggested camaraderie we didn't share. "No, son," he said with an annoying warmth in his voice. "I'm doing this because it's good for you."

With that, Walker walked away, leaving me stewing in silence and reluctant responsibility.

The day passed by and I stayed on the ice, a place where I could escape the bullshit of the real world. As I glided across the rink, the familiar scrape of blades against the frozen surface filled my ears. It was a sound that had become as much a part of me as my own heartbeat.

But my solitude was short-lived. The Titans began to trickle in, their voices echoing off the walls of the rink. Among them was my younger brother, Damien.

He looked like a damn Viking with his silver-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. The resemblance to our father was uncanny, a fact that never failed to twist the knife in my gut, while I took more after my mother… the vindictive bitch.

Damien and I had never been close. He was too young to remember the divorce, the screaming matches that had shaken the walls of our childhood home. He had been spared the pain of watching our family fall apart, piece by piece.

I envied him for that.

He skated onto the ice with an easy grace, his movements fluid and confident. The other Titans greeted him with fist bumps and back slaps, their laughter ringing out across the rink, though some gave him a wary eye. The Sinclaires had a reputation, and apparently, that included Damien.

Good.

I watched from a distance, my jaw clenched tight. It was like looking at a version of myself from another life, one where I hadn't been forced to grow up too fast, to shoulder the weight of our family's dysfunction.

Damien caught my eye from across the ice, his gaze flickering with something I couldn't quite read. Recognition, maybe. Amusement.

It was always amusement with him. He never took shit seriously.

I looked away, my grip tightening on my stick. I didn't need his acknowledgment. I didn't need anyone's.

Thomas Morgan's whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of practice.

I pushed off the ice, the cold burn in my lungs a sharp reminder of my disdain for this place. Skating past the fresh-faced Titans, I felt a pang of something bitter, something like regret. They were the future of hockey, and here I was, a washed-up has-been at twenty-eight.

The locker room's musty scent hit me as I entered. It clung to the air like a stubborn fog, heavy with the memories of a thousand games played and lost. The sound of my skates hitting the floor echoed, hollow and final. I dropped onto the bench, my fingers working at the laces with practiced ease.

With each tug, the anger bubbled closer to the surface. Anger at being here. Anger at the shattered pieces of my life that seemed impossible to gather up again. Anger that instead of lighting up the NHL, I was teaching clowns how to skate straight.

I glanced down at my hands—scarred and rough from fights that never changed anything. My brother Damien would end up just like me; I could feel it in my bones. He had Sinclaire blood running through his veins, and that meant he was doomed to fuck up, just like I did. He already had with that girl when he was in high school.

Ashley's face flashed in my mind—her smile that never quite reached her eyes, her promises as empty as the arena after a losing game. She said she loved me, but love was just another word for convenience. The moment my career tanked, she was gone.

Who could love a bastard with my face?

And there was Aaron Matthews, smug bastard, always spouting his philosophy on women and hockey like he had it all figured out. I hated he turned out to be right about her. Hated it more than anything.

As I pulled off my skates and tossed them into my bag with more force than necessary, her betrayal gnawed at me—a wound that refused to heal no matter how much time passed.

"Yeah," I muttered to myself, "fuck this."

The echoes of laughter from the ice rink taunted me—a reminder of what I'd lost and what these kids still had. It was all so fucked up.

The weight of what could have been pressed down on me as I sat there on that cold, unforgiving bench—the ghost of Cooper Sinclaire's once-promising future hanging thick in the air.

I laced up my street shoes and stepped out of the rink, the lingering chill of the ice giving way to the tepid air of an early March afternoon. The sun peeked through scattered clouds, its rays brushing against my skin with the promise of spring's return.

The campus sprawled before me, a blend of historical brick buildings and modern architecture, each structure telling its own story of the years gone by. Students wandered the pathways, their laughter and chatter creating a symphony of youthful optimism. The towering oaks that lined the walkways stood like sentinels, their branches hinting at the buds that would soon bloom.

I walked past them all, barely noticing. The ghosts of my past clung to me, heavier than any winter coat.

That's when my phone buzzed in my pocket—a jarring intrusion into my thoughts. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. An unfamiliar number flashed across it. I hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Yeah?" I grunted into the receiver.

"Coop, it's Ashley," came the reply, her voice a sharp contrast to the serene day.

"Coop?" I echoed reflexively, my tone laced with sarcasm. "Funny. After you eviscerated me on the NHL Network, I don't believe you've earned the right to call me that."

"Cooper," she pressed on, ignoring my jab. "You're late."

"For what?" My brows furrowed in confusion.

"Mediation," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Mediation," I repeated slowly, letting the word hang between us like a noose.

"Yes, Cooper, we discussed this," she said with a tinge of impatience. "We're going to divide our assets?—"

"Wait," I cut her off, feeling a surge of anger rising within me. "You think you get anything of mine? You dropped me too fast, Ashley. We were engaged, not married."

"I still have some rights," she argued back. "Some things I'm entitled to."

I hated how goddamn smug she sounded over the line, as if she had already won this battle too.

I sneered into the phone. "You have shit, Ashley. And that's what you'll get from me."

"You know," she shot back, her voice a hiss through the speaker, "my lawyer says I'm entitled to compensation for the years I wasted being with you. You're a monster, Cooper. What you did to Matthews?—"

"After he spoke so fondly of you," I interrupted, the bitter taste of sarcasm heavy on my tongue. "How someone like you could never love someone like me. How you were only after my money. How delightful that he turned out to be right, hmm? You aren't getting shit, Ashley. You can take me to court, but I hope you have the money to pay for your lawyer's fees as well as mine."

Before she could spit out another venomous word, I hung up.

"Goddammit!" My voice cracked like a whip through the air, startling a couple of freshmen who had been strolling by.

They jumped, their eyes flicking to my scars before quickly darting away.

"Is that Cooper Sinclaire?" one of them whispered to the other.

"Who else has those scars?" his companion muttered.

Their words hung between us like a challenge I didn't have the energy to take up.

"What're you looking at?" I snapped, my voice harsher than I'd intended.

The students scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving me standing there with the echo of their fear ringing in my ears.

I cut to the parking lot, making a beeline for my car.

I drove back to my place in the teaching housing section, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. The conversation with Ashley still echoed in my ears, each word a sharp reminder of everything I'd lost.

I sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of my thoughts. The road stretched out before me, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the picturesque campus.

As I pulled up to the driveway, I noticed a couple making out against the garage. Their bodies were pressed close, hands roaming with a familiarity that made my stomach turn. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out their features in the fading light.

Wait a minute. Was that...?

Connor Bradley.

I'd heard the rumors, of course. Whispers in the halls about the young professor and his student. Judging by the enticing school uniform she wore, the gossip seemed to be true. They were definitely in a relationship.

Huh.

I watched them for a moment, a strange mix of emotions swirling in my gut. If someone like Fury Bradley could find someone, then maybe...

No.

I shook my head, tearing my gaze away from the couple. I refused to let myself get suckered into this again. Love was a trap, a pretty lie that only led to pain and betrayal. I'd learned that lesson the hard way with Ashley.

I put the car in park and stepped out, slamming the door behind me with more force than necessary. The sound echoed through the quiet neighborhood, a harsh reminder of my presence.

As I made my way inside, I couldn't shake the image of Connor and his student from my mind. It was like a splinter, digging deeper with every step.

Damn it.

I needed a drink.

I stepped into my new teaching housing, the scent of fresh paint still lingering in the air. Dark oak furniture filled the space, the rich hues contrasting against the pristine white walls. The hardwood floors gleamed beneath my feet, not a single scuff or scratch marring their surface. It was all so new, so untouched—a stark reminder of the life I was supposed to be living now. A life where I was a mentor, a guide to the next generation of whatever the fuck those kids were. But as I stood there, surrounded by the trappings of this new role, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all a facade. A mask I was forced to wear, hiding the broken pieces of the man I used to be.

I made my way down to the basement, my footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs. The bar was fully stocked, a glittering array of bottles promising oblivion. I reached for the whiskey—Mulholland Distilling American Whiskey. The amber liquid sloshed in the bottle as I poured a generous glass.

"Hmm," I grunted, the sound harsh in the stillness of the room.

I knocked back the whiskey, the burn of it searing my throat. The taste was smoky and complex, with hints of vanilla and caramel. It was a damn good whiskey, the kind that could make you forget your troubles for a while.

And I needed to forget everything.

But as the warmth of the alcohol spread through my veins, I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. The ghosts of my past were always there, waiting in the shadows.

I poured another glass, the amber liquid catching the light. I swirled it around, watching as it clung to the sides of the glass. How many nights had I spent, drowning my sorrows in a bottle? Too many to count.

But tonight, the whiskey tasted different. Bitter, like the ashes of a life that had gone up in flames. I thought of Ashley, of the venom in her voice as she demanded what she thought she was owed. I thought of Damien, skating across the ice with an ease I envied. I thought of the Titans, their laughter a mocking reminder of everything I'd lost.

I drained the glass, the burn of the whiskey no longer a comfort. It was just another way to numb the pain, to pretend that I wasn't a washed-up has-been with nothing left to lose.

I set the glass down on the bar with a heavy thud; the sound echoing in the emptiness of the room. The house was too quiet, too still. It was like a mausoleum, a monument to a life that had long since passed me by.

I needed to get out of here, to escape the suffocating weight of my own failures. But where could I go? The ice was the only place that had ever felt like home, and even that had been taken from me.