Chapter 2 Jack

T he puck slices across the ice as I take a shot on goal. My stick makes solid contact, the carbon fiber shaft vibrating in my hands from the force. The puck rockets toward the net, but the opposing goalie is ready. With feline reflexes, he shifts his bulky frame and deflects it away with his blocker.

Frustration surges through me, my competitive drive burning hot. I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring as I inhale the crisp, recycled arena air. My skates churn up shavings of ice as I pivot, already scanning for the next opportunity.

Sam circles behind me, his presence a reassurance. We've played together for years, our chemistry honed to an instinctive level. A subtle shift in his stance is all the signal I need. I read his intent and break toward the net, cutting a path through the defensive tangle.

The opposing players converge, bodies slamming together with the percussive crack of fiberglass. Sticks clatter and blades screech, the sounds of warfare echoing through the rink. I brace for impact, using my size to fend off the hits, shrugging them aside like raindrops.

Sam's pass finds me in a sliver of open space. The puck arrives with a sharp thwack against my blade. In one fluid motion, I corral it, wind up, and unleash a blistering slapshot. The puck blurs past the screened goalie, clanging off the crossbar and ricocheting into the net.

A roar of approval rises from the bench as my teammates celebrate, but the thrill of scoring is short-lived. A burning ache lances through my shoulder, the familiar pain flaring with each movement. I grit my teeth, refusing to show weakness.

Sam claps me on the back, his hand landing squarely on my good shoulder. He gives me a sympathetic look as his gaze darts to my bad shoulder before he skates away.

Coach Mathews stalks the boards, his scowl etched deep into craggy features. His piercing gaze sweeps over the players, daring anyone to falter. Reginald Mathews is a taskmaster, demanding commitment no matter the cost.

The whistle shrieks, signaling the next drill. We snap to attention, bodies thrumming with adrenaline. Pain is temporary. Just an obstacle to overcome. The game is everything.

I dig my blades into the ice, propelling myself forward with powerful strides. The burn in my shoulder intensifies, but I push through, gritting my teeth against the agony. Quitting is not an option with the season opener looming and a championship to defend.

Coach's voice booms across the rink, barking orders and critiques. He's an expert at exploiting weaknesses, using fear and intimidation to extract every ounce of effort. I've seen him break men, crushing their spirits until they're hollow husks, discarded like worn-out equipment.

But I won't be one of them. I can't afford to show vulnerability, not with so much riding on my performance. The Firebirds are more than just a team. We're a brotherhood and I'm the captain. The drill ends, and I peel off, coasting toward the bench. Sam falls into stride beside me, his brow furrowed with concern. He knows the extent of my injury.

"You need to get that looked at by a specialist, man," he says, keeping his voice low. "This isn't sustainable."

I shake my head, jaw clenched. "Not an option. You know how Reginald operates."

Sam's expression darkens, his eyes narrowing. We've both seen the consequences of defying the coach's iron-fisted rule. Players cast aside, careers derailed on a whim, and lives ruined. Vince Halstrom comes immediately to mind. Reginald wields power like a blunt instrument, crushing anyone who dares to challenge him.

"This is different," Sam insists. "You're the captain. The face of the franchise. They can't afford to lose you."

His words ring hollow, and we both know it. In Reginald's world, no one is indispensable. Loyalty is a one-way street, and dissent is met with swift retribution.

The whistle pierces the air again, summoning us back to the grind. Sam gives me a look that says this conversation isn't over, but for now, we have no choice but to fall in line and sacrifice our bodies on the altar of victory.

As I rejoin the fray, my mind drifts to the woman who's unexpectedly entered my life. Elyse, with her disarming smile and those captivating eyes that seem to see straight through my defenses. She represents a world beyond the rink, a tantalizing glimpse of something more, but such distractions are a dangerous luxury I can't afford when the game demands everything, body and soul.

I force her from my thoughts, refocusing on the task at hand. The ice is my domain, and the only thing that matters.

The pain in my shoulder is a constant companion, a searing reminder of the price I've paid for glory, but I'll endure it, as I always have, because that's what champions do. We fight through the agony, pushing past limits that would break lesser men.

As the practice grinds on, I lose myself in the rhythm of the game, The roar of my teammates fades into the background, replaced by my pounding heart and labored breaths.

This is my life, my purpose, and I'll cling to it with every ounce of strength I possess.

***

The locker room echoes with the clamor of men stripping off sweat-drenched gear. The air is thick with the mingled scents of exertion, liniment, and stale sweat. I peel off my jersey, grimacing as the fabric peels away from my skin, the fibers sticking to the drying perspiration.

Sam ambles over, his broad shoulders glistening with moisture. He claps me on the back, the impact jarring my tender shoulder. I bite back a wince, refusing to show weakness.

"Hell of a practice, Cap." His voice is a low rumble, the gruff timbre tinged with admiration. "That snipe in the third period was pure filth."

I give him a wry smile. "Just doing my job."

Sam shakes his head, a wry grin spreading across his face. "Always the humble one, eh? You can drop the act, bro. We both know you're the stud keeping this team afloat."

I shrug, deflecting the praise. Compliments have always made me uneasy, a remnant of the emotional scars left by my parents' tumultuous relationship. Affection was a rare commodity in that household, replaced by bitter accusations and fakeness.

Sam seems to sense my discomfort, his expression softening. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "So, what's the deal with you and my sister?"

My breath catches as a surge of heat floods my face. I avert my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed toes of my skates. "I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter, the words thick and unconvincing.

Sam arches an eyebrow, his green eyes glinting with amusement. "Come on, man. I've seen the way you two look at each other. Like a couple of lovestruck teenagers."

I open my mouth to protest, but the words die on my tongue. There's no use denying the undeniable. Elyse has burrowed her way under my skin. But voicing those feelings, even to Sam, feels wrong. Some things are better left unspoken, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. "She's…special."

His expression softens. "Just be careful, yeah?" His tone is gentle, but the undercurrent of warning is unmistakable. "My sister has a good heart, and I don't want to see it get trampled on."

I nod, the weight of his words settling like a lead weight in my gut. He's right, of course. Elyse deserves better than the emotional wreckage I have to offer, but the thought of letting her go, of surrendering the fragile connection we've barely started to forge, is like a physical ache.

The sound of approaching footsteps shatters the moment, and we both turn to see Coach Mathews bearing down on us. His face is a mask of stern disapproval, the lines etched deep by years of scowling.

"Ford. Masterson." His voice carries an undercurrent of menace. "I hope I'm not interrupting a riveting discussion about your love lives."

Sam tenses beside me, his jaw clenching. Mathews has a way of making even the most innocuous comments sound like a threat.

"Just talking strategy, Coach," I say smoothly, hoping to defuse the situation before it escalates.

His gaze bores into me, eyes narrowed to slits. "Is that so? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're getting a little too cozy with your teammate's sister."

A chill runs down my spine, my pulse quickening. How much did he hear? "With all due respect, Coach, my personal life is none of your concern," I say, keeping my tone even and measured.

Mathews takes a step closer, his imposing frame looming over me. The scent of stale sweat and cheap cologne washes over me, making my stomach churn.

"Everything that affects this team is my concern, Ford," he says, his words laced with venom. "And if you think I'm going to let some piece of tail derail our championship streak, you've got another thing coming."

Anger flares hot in my chest, but I force it down, tamping the flames. Reginald thrives on confrontation, using it as an excuse to exert his dominance. I've seen too many good men broken by his mind games to fall into that trap. "Understood, Coach," I grit out, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

He holds my gaze for a beat longer, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that borders on mania. Then, seemingly satisfied, he turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving strained silence in his wake.

Sam exhales a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. "That man is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, I swear."

I manage a tight smile, but the humor rings hollow. Coach's words have struck a nerve, dredging up memories I'd rather keep buried. Memories of a past relationship that spiraled into a toxic whirlpool of jealousy and control.

Karina's face flashes through my mind, her features twisted into a mask of rage and betrayal. The shattered remnants of a vase that clattered against the wall, narrowly missing my head. The bitter taste of regret, like bile in the back of my throat.