20. Henry

20

Henry

T he sharp buzz of my phone alarm shattered the silence, dragging me from the depths of sleep. I groaned, furrowing my brow as I slowly opened my eyes. The room was still cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of early morning light creeping through the curtains.

Morning skate.

Great.

Somehow, during the night, Freya had shifted closer and wound up nestled in my arms. Her small frame fit perfectly against me, radiating warmth. Protective instincts stirred deep within me, stronger than I'd ever felt before. I hadn’t intended to reveal so much to her last night, but something about her disarmed me.

Freya stirred slightly, her breathing soft and even. She looked so peaceful like this, far removed from the tension and arguments that had defined our interactions so far. It struck me how vulnerable she seemed, and I tightened my hold on her instinctively.

But I knew I couldn't stay in bed all morning, no matter how much I wanted to. Responsibilities waited for no one, especially not a Mathers.

Carefully, I disentangled myself from Freya's embrace. She murmured something in her sleep but didn't wake up. I paused for a moment, just watching her. The curve of her cheek, the way her hair fanned out on the pillow—details I'd never taken the time to notice before.

Sighing softly, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. My muscles protested; yesterday’s workout still lingered in my body. The events of last night played through my mind as I dressed quietly. It had been raw and unplanned, but perhaps it had been necessary.

I glanced back at Freya one last time before heading out of the room. She shifted again in her sleep, curling into the space where I'd been lying moments before.

As I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen for a quick bite before heading to practice, a strange mix of emotions churned inside me—frustration, confusion, but also something new: a sliver of hope.

I drove to practice, my mind lingering on the image of Freya sleeping peacefully. The roads were empty at this early hour, and the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the faint whisper of tires against asphalt. Part of me considered taking her with me, just to keep an eye on her, but I knew it was impractical. She needed rest, and the rink was no place for someone still adjusting to... everything.

The town passed by in a blur, and soon enough, I pulled into the parking lot of the ice rink. My teammates' cars were scattered around, a few headlights cutting through the early morning mist. I parked and sat there for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. The routine of practice was supposed to be grounding, but today, it felt like a distraction I couldn’t afford.

Inside, the locker room buzzed with the usual pre-practice chatter. The guys were in various stages of gearing up, some stretching while others joked around. Liam caught my eye from across the room and gave me a nod.

"Morning," I called out as he tightened his skates.

He nodded back, turning back to his goalie pads. As I started changing into my gear, my thoughts drifted back to Freya again. I wondered if she was still asleep or if she’d wake up to an empty bed and feel even more alone.

"Everything good?" Keaton’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"Yeah," I replied, yanking my jersey over my head. "Just a lot on my mind. Things are... complicated."

He chuckled softly. "Aren't they always?"

I forced a grin, though it felt more like a grimace. "True enough."

The banter continued around us as I finished suiting up. Helmet in hand, I headed toward the rink, trying to shake off the lingering tension. The cold air hit me as soon as I stepped onto the ice, and for a moment, it was almost refreshing.

Almost.

Coach Morgan blew his whistle sharply, signaling us to gather around. As we skated over, I pushed thoughts of Freya aside and focused on the task at hand. Practice was where I needed to be right now—physically and mentally. The ice demanded my full attention.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, she lingered.

"All right, boys, let's get to it. We're working on breakouts today. Kennedy, lead the first drill."

Levi Kennedy nodded, taking his position at center ice. As much as I loathed the guy for what he had put my sister through, he had all but made up for it. And he was a damn good hockey player.

As we ran through the motions, I could feel my body falling into the rhythm of practice. The repetition was comforting in its own way—a series of movements I could perform without thinking too much about them.

Keaton passed me the puck, and I felt the familiar weight of it against my stick. I skated down the rink, eyes scanning for an opening. Liam was already in position at the goal, crouched low and ready for anything. I faked left, then shot right, sending the puck flying toward the net.

Liam's glove snapped out and caught it effortlessly. "Nice try," he said with a smirk.

"You're getting slow," I shot back, skating past him to get back on the blue line.

We ran through the drills over and over again, each pass and shot sharpening our skills a little more. The physical exertion helped clear my mind, but every now and then, thoughts of Freya would sneak back in.

During a brief water break, Keaton skated over to me. "You seem distracted today," he observed.

I took a long drink from my bottle before replying. "Just... stuff going on at home."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Well, try to leave it off the ice, asshole. We're in the fucking playoffs."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I'll manage."

The rest of practice went by in a blur of motion and noise—the thud of pucks against boards, the scrape of skates on ice, Coach Morgan's occasional shouts for us to pick up the pace or tighten our formations.

We moved on to another drill, this one focusing on defensive zone coverage. Coach Morgan had us pair up, each duo tasked with keeping the puck out of our end. I got matched with Keaton, his chaotic demeanor contrasting sharply with my own restlessness.

"All right, boys," Morgan barked, his voice echoing in the cold rink. "No puck leaves your zone. Communicate and stay sharp."

Keaton and I positioned ourselves near the blue line, waiting for the whistle. The moment it blew, our opponents charged at us with a ferocity that only the promise of playoffs could inspire. I squared my shoulders and locked eyes with Sawyer Wolfe, barreling toward me, anticipating his every move.

He feinted left, but I didn't bite. My stick shot out, intercepting the puck and sending it skittering back toward Keaton. He scooped it up effortlessly, pivoting on his skates to clear it down the ice.

"Fuck yeah," he muttered as we regrouped.

I nodded, focusing back on our opponents who were already coming at us again. This time, they tried a different tactic—quick passes meant to disorient us. I kept my eyes sharp, tracking the puck as it zipped between them.

One of them managed to break through Keaton's defense and took a shot at our goal. Instinct took over. I dove low, my stick catching the puck just before it could cross the line. The impact rattled through my arm but there was no time to dwell on it.

"Clear!" I shouted.

Keaton was already in motion, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in our opponents' focus to send the puck flying down to their zone. It bought us precious seconds to reset our positions.

"Keep talking," Coach hollered from the sidelines. "You lose communication, you lose control."

The drill continued like that—intense, fast-paced, leaving no room for stray thoughts or hesitation. My body moved almost automatically now, every muscle attuned to the rhythm of play. Despite everything swirling around in my head earlier that morning, right now all that mattered was this game.

Keaton and I held our ground for most of the drill. We weren't perfect; a few pucks slipped past us here and there, but overall we kept our zone secure. Each successful block felt like a small victory, pushing back against all the uncertainty gnawing at me from within.

The whistle blew, shrill and demanding, signaling the end of practice. I coasted to a stop, breathing hard, feeling the burn in my legs. The team gathered around Coach Morgan at center ice, the usual post-practice chatter falling silent as we awaited his words.

Coach stood there, a hulking figure with his hands on his hips, looking each of us in the eye before he began speaking. His voice was gravelly and commanding, like something straight out of a war movie.

"Listen up, boys," he said, pacing back and forth in front of us. "Tomorrow night is it. This game ain't just another tick on the calendar—it's our ticket to the Championship."

He stopped and looked at us again, eyes narrowing. "We've worked our asses off to get here. Blood, sweat, tears—every damn cliché you can think of—but it means jack shit if we don't bring our A-game tomorrow."

I shifted on my skates, glancing at my teammates. They were all focused, absorbing every word.

"Now I know you all got shit going on outside this rink," Morgan continued. "Family issues, school work, whatever the hell it is that's eating at you. But when you step onto that ice tomorrow night? All that crap stays behind."

His voice grew more intense, eyes boring into us one by one. "You leave it all out there. Every ounce of energy, every bit of skill—hell, even your goddamn soul if you have to. We need this win."

The room was silent except for the hum of the arena lights and the faint sound of skates shifting on ice.

"Tomorrow," Morgan said slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in, "we're not just playing for ourselves. We're playing for each other. For this team."

He paused again and then gave a grim smile. "Now get your asses outta here and rest up. Tomorrow's gonna be one hell of a fight."

We dispersed slowly, each of us lost in our own thoughts but united by the same goal. As I walked off the ice and into the locker room, Coach's words echoed in my mind. This game wasn't just about moving on to the Championship; it was about proving something—to ourselves and everyone watching.

Tomorrow night would be our moment.

And I intended to make damn sure we seized it.

We headed to the locker room, the adrenaline from practice still coursing through my veins. I started to undress, peeling off my gear piece by piece. The usual post-practice banter filled the room, but my mind was still on Freya and everything that had happened.

"Mathers," Damien Sinclaire called, sitting on the bench as he unlaced his skates. "What's this I hear about Jensen going to the emergency room last night? Isn't he your friend?"

There was a smirk on Damien's face, insistent that he knew more than he was letting on.

"How the fuck should I know?" I shot back, not bothering to hide my irritation. "I could give two shits about Jensen."

"Strange," Damien murmured, eyes glinting with mischief. "And here I thought he had every intention to claim your fiancée?—"

I stood up abruptly, fury surging through me.

"Shut the fuck up, Sinclaire," Kennedy interjected before I could respond.

Damien chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

"I suppose you wouldn't like anyone going after what's yours, would you?" Adrian Windsor asked.

"Mine?" Damien raised an eyebrow. "I know better than to entangle myself with anyone."

"Your brother seems happy," Liam pointed out from across the room.

"My brother is fucking an eighteen-year-old," Damien replied, his tone dripping with disdain. "At twenty-eight, who the fuck wouldn't be happy?"

"Isn't she friends with the dean's daughter?" Michael Carter chimed in.

Something flashed across Damien's face—anger replacing his usual amusement. Something about the dean's daughter. Before I could say anything, Coach Morgan's voice cut through the tension.

"Mathers," he barked from the doorway. "Someone's here to see you."

I glanced at Coach, then back at my teammates before heading toward the door, curiosity and apprehension mixing in equal measure.

The tension in the room hit me like a freight train the moment I stepped into Coach Morgan's office. Richard stood there, looking as smug and slimy as ever. My jaw clenched involuntarily. The last person I wanted to see right now was him. After everything he'd done—what he tried to do to Minka, his underhanded attempts to seize control of our inheritance, and the satisfaction I felt removing him from the board—I thought we were finally done with him.

"I'll take it from here," Richard said, his voice oily and confident.

"If it's all the same," Morgan replied, dropping into his chair with a casual air that belied the tension in the room. "I'll stay."

Richard looked ready to argue, but I cut him off before he could start. "What are you doing here?"

"I was contacted by someone anonymous who said you assaulted a fellow student," Richard stated, his tone dripping with false concern. "Not only is it against the law, it's against strict rules you agreed to adhere to."

I knew exactly what he meant. As a member of Ravenwood, I wasn't sanctioned to harm anyone within the Society's bounds.

"Yes, well, he violated the rules," I retorted.

"That's not for you to decide," he snapped back. "There's a board meeting tomorrow. Your presence is required."

"I have the Championship game?—"

"Then I suppose you'll be forfeiting your inheritance," Richard interrupted. He was enjoying this too much. "Tomorrow. At the Regency. Six o'clock."

I glared at him, feeling the weight of my options pressing down on me like an iron vice. The Championship game was everything I'd worked for all season, but missing that meeting could mean losing everything my family had built over generations.

"Understood," I finally muttered through gritted teeth.

Richard's smirk widened as he turned on his heel and left the office without another word.

I stood there, feeling the weight of Richard's words pressing down on me. My fists clenched at my sides, but I kept my expression neutral. Morgan watched me carefully from his chair.

"This about Freya?" Morgan asked, leaning back and crossing his arms.

I stiffened, caught off-guard that he even knew about her. "How do you?—"

"Look," he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm the last person to impart advice, but..."

"You think I shouldn't let a woman come between me and my future?" I asked, my voice tight.

Morgan furrowed his brow, looking almost offended. "What? Fuck no. If she means something to you, you do anything for her. Shit, Mathers. You saw what I did at the fucking Masquerade Ball. To my own fucking son, no less. Fucking Liam Wolfe had to pick me up from jail."

I stared at him, taken aback by his bluntness. "You'd do it again?"

Morgan sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "Shit," he muttered. "Of course I would. Fucking stupid, isn't it? She's the last person I should fucking want. And I haven't seen her in months, but..." He shook his head as if trying to shake off the memory. "Goddammit, I'm running my fucking mouth." He looked up at me then, eyes sharp and tired all at once. "Get the fuck out of my office, Mathers."

For a moment, I just stood there, processing everything he had said. Then my lips twitched into something that might have been a smile.

"Thanks," I said quietly before turning and leaving his office.

As I walked down the hallway back toward the locker room, Morgan's words echoed in my mind. Maybe there was more to this than just choosing between Freya and my future.

Maybe they were one and the same.