18. Michael

18

Michael

T he chill of the rink bit into my skin as I laced up my skates, the familiar tension knotting in my gut. It wasn't nerves for the game, but the thoughts of Addison that refused to unclench. I pushed them aside as I stepped onto the ice, gliding into the cold embrace that demanded all of my focus.

Sawyer Wolfe caught my eye, his stick handling lax yet somehow effective, a grin plastered on his face as he avoided a check from one of the defensemen. He did it on purpose, pretending to be careless when he was almost as good as Kennedy himself. Levi Kennedy was already doing laps around the rink, his face a mask of concentration, cutting through the air like it was standing still.

I centered myself, ready for Coach's whistle. The sound cracked through the air, and we were in motion. I won the face-off, directing the puck to Levi with a nod. He rocketed down the left side while I charged up the center, Sawyer flanking to the right. We were a three-pronged spear aimed at Liam Wolfe's net.

Sawyer got too fancy with a deke and lost control; the puck slipped away, but I snagged it before it crossed our line. "Eyes on the prize, Wolfe!" I barked without malice.

Levi received my pass with precision and took a shot. Liam deflected it effortlessly with his pads, a clear sign he'd read Levi's intention before he even made the move.

"Nice try," Liam shouted across the ice, smirking.

Eren was on defense today alongside Keaton. I could feel Eren's eyes boring into me every time we crossed paths, his energy tense and unyielding like barbed wire stretched too tight. He wasn't just playing defense against the opposing team; he was guarding something far more personal.

Keaton sent a pass Eren's way; it was crisp and sure to hit its mark until Sawyer, distracted by who knows what, collided with Eren sending both sprawling across the ice.

"Watch it!" Eren shouted from beneath Sawyer's lanky frame.

Coach blew his whistle, signaling a pause in our scrimmage. "Get it fucking together," he yelled from beyond the boards. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than everyone else—he knew something was off.

We reset our positions as Coach watched us like a hawk eyeing its prey. This time when I pushed off into play, every muscle in my body channeled my frustration into power on the ice. Every stride felt like an escape and confrontation all at once.

As practice continued under Coach's scrutinizing gaze, each pass, each check held more than just strategy—it held fragments of everything unsaid between Eren and me.

My breath fogged the air with each exhale, the chill of the rink seeping into my bones. The steel blades beneath my feet carved the ice as I pushed off, gaining momentum. Puck on my stick, I could feel Eren's shadow trailing me, a constant presence that fueled a simmering fire within.

The practice was more than just a routine—it was a battleground of unspoken tensions and stifled emotions. With each drill, I could feel Eren's gaze prickling the back of my neck, his thoughts undoubtedly circling around Addison and the mess we'd found ourselves in.

A mess of his own making.

He didn't know what happened last night, did he?

We lined up for another scrimmage, Coach Morgan's eyes sharp as talons from his perch behind the boards. The whistle pierced the air, and we were in motion again, a flurry of bodies and sticks. Levi was on point as usual, weaving through defenders with ease. Sawyer was focused and fast, probably his best skill.

I saw an opening and called for the puck. Levi snapped it to me and I took off, skating hard up the ice. Eren positioned himself between me and the goal, eyes locked onto mine—a silent challenge. My pulse hammered in my ears as I barreled towards him.

It wasn't just about scoring anymore; it was about making a statement.

Eren braced for my approach, ready to counter. But this wasn't about finesse or skillful dodging; this was primal—a clash waiting to erupt.

I lowered my shoulder as I neared him, feeling that raw energy coursing through me like a live wire. At the last second, I feinted left then quickly shifted right—Eren bit hard on the fake.

As he stumbled to recover his position, I saw my chance. With a swift move borne of aggression rather than gameplay, I crosschecked him squarely in the chest. His feet left the ice as he crashed down with a thud that echoed hollowly in the rink.

A chorus of gasps and shouts filled the air, but all I heard was the rush of blood in my head—a dull roar that drowned out everything else.

Coach Morgan's whistle screamed through the cacophony, long and sharp. Practice skidded to a halt as everyone's eyes fixed on Eren sprawled on the ice and me standing over him—the line between protector and aggressor blurred beyond recognition.

"Carter!" His voice boomed across the ice, reverberating against the cold walls. "You got a fucking screw loose today?"

I looked up, panting, my heart still racing from the hit. Eren was picking himself up off the ice, shooting me a glare that could freeze the rink over twice.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Morgan's voice had that edge to it, like a blade drawn across stone.

I met his gaze, and it was like looking into a storm about to break. "That was a fucking selfish play, Carter. We're here to score goals, not to land hits. That's not your job."

His words echoed with a furious drawl. He had a way of swinging sentences like barbed-wire bats.

"You're one of my top forwards," he continued, pacing in front of our line with hands clasped behind his back. "Not some stupid goon looking for cheap thrills. You pull another stunt like that and you'll find your ass warming the bench so fast your head will spin. I don't give a good, goddamn shit if we're in the playoffs or not, either."

The threat hung in the air between us, cold and sharp. I knew he meant every word; Coach didn't make idle threats. My job was to light the lamp, not knock bodies—especially not in practice.

"Get your head in the game, or so help me..." He left the threat hanging as he turned away, shaking his head in frustration.

I watched him skate off before glancing over at Eren, who was now back on his feet and smirking at me with that infuriating look of his. Whatever truce we had outside of this rink was cracking under the weight of what happened last night.

My jaw clenched as I returned to my position on the ice. Coach Morgan had made his point loud and clear. It was time to focus on what I did best: scoring goals and leading this team—not settling scores.

The whistle blared, and we reset. Puck dropped, and the game resumed. I felt every slash from Eren, each one a deliberate sting to my hands. I clenched my teeth, forcing myself to focus on the play rather than the growing rage inside me.

I took a deep breath, trying to let it slide. It was just Eren being Eren—a provocateur with a knack for finding weak spots. But with each jab of his stick, my control slipped further.

My mind replayed the morning's scene—Addison in her kitchen, frustration creasing her brow as she baked. And Eren, he'd been there too, waking up in her bed, breathing in her scent on the pillow I wished was mine.

I caught the puck and made a break for it down the ice, Eren hot on my trail. Another slash to my wrists, harder this time, and I felt the beast within awaken.

Not this time.

I spun around and faced him head-on. His smirk was all it took—that damned self-assured smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

I dropped my stick and my gloves and grabbed the front of his jersey.

His eyes widened just a fraction before his own anger kicked in. He dropped his stick and his gloves too, and his hands came up to meet mine.

We went at it, trading blows that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with her. My fist connected with his jaw; his elbow slammed into my ribs. The scrimmage around us faded into background noise as we became the center of a violent storm.

Skates scraped against ice as teammates rushed to pull us apart. But we were locked in this fight—two forces colliding with years of friendship and rivalry boiling over.

And then it wasn't about Addison anymore; it was about us—about every unsaid word and unresolved tension that had built up over time.

Coach Morgan's shouts were distant as our teammates finally wrenched us apart. Chest heaving, blood mixing with sweat on my face, I glared at Eren, the message clear:

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

My knuckles stung, split from where they'd made contact with Eren's jaw, and my chest heaved as I sucked in the frigid air. I could taste iron on my tongue, blood mingling with adrenaline. The fight had been ripped from us as we were dragged apart, leaving behind a ringing silence that throbbed in my ears.

"Is this a bad time?" The new voice cut through the tension like a skate blade across fresh ice.

Heads turned in unison toward the door. There stood a man with a presence that filled the room without a word—a natural authority that didn't need to announce itself. His voice was gravelly, like it had been dragged through a hundred hockey fights of its own.

Next to him stood a blonde girl no older than eighteen, her eyes wide at the chaos before her.

"No," Coach Morgan grunted, wiping his brow with the back of his hand as he assessed us—his two top players now resembling nothing more than street brawlers.

"All right, assholes," Morgan continued, voice tinged with both anger and embarrassment. "Time to meet your new dean, John Walker."

The new dean's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail: the blood on the ice, the torn jerseys, and the faces of his new charges—some shocked, some trying to hide smirks at our expense. His gaze lingered on me for an uncomfortable beat before moving on to Eren.

Eren stood there panting like a bull after a fight, blood trickling from his split lip down his chin. We were both messes of rage and raw emotion laid bare for all to see. That we were now being introduced to our new dean in such a state wasn't lost on either of us.

This wasn't how I'd imagined any of this going down. A fight during practice was one thing—hell, it was almost expected given the tensions of any team—but not like this. Not with fists and bloodshed over something so personal it twisted my insides just thinking about it.

Dean Walker stepped forward with measured confidence, balancing with ease even on the ice. He didn't need to raise his voice; his calm demeanor alone demanded attention and respect.

I straightened up as best as I could, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. This was it—the moment where first impressions were made. And here I was standing in front of him, fists still clenched at my sides, bloodied and bruised from fighting my own teammate.

But his expression remained unreadable—a mask of professionalism over whatever thoughts might be churning behind those assessing eyes.

As Dean Walker's gaze shifted across the room, his eyes narrowed slightly upon landing on Damien Sinclaire. Sinclaire, for his part, seemed oblivious to everything except the girl standing beside the dean. It was clear there was a history there, though what it was, I couldn't say.

John Walker stood with the kind of relaxed authority that reminded me of a seasoned leader—a man who'd seen enough to expect more from those around him. His hair was peppered with grey, but it only served to enhance the distinguished air about him. The lines on his face spoke of years of experience rather than age, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who had been heard and heeded many times before.

He stepped forward, the team's attention reluctantly shifting from Eren and me to our new dean.

"Boys," he began, his tone even but firm, "I'm John Walker. Your new dean." His blue eyes swept over us once more. "I've been brought in to make sure this institution and its teams uphold the integrity and excellence we're known for."

His gaze settled on Sinclaire for a moment, who returned the look with a cool stare. I could feel a silent exchange pass between them—one that spoke volumes about their respective standings.

Walker continued, unfazed by Sinclaire's demeanor. "This team is under scrutiny," he said. "Hockey is what you're known for, but it's more than just a game—it's a commitment to excellence that doesn't end when you leave this rink."

The room was still now, every player hanging on Walker's words.

"It's different now that I'm here," he stated unequivocally. "The days of buying your way through problems are over. From this point forward, you will be held accountable for your actions both on and off the ice."

There was a collective tightening in the room—a sense that the ground rules were shifting beneath our feet. Some guys shifted uncomfortably; others exchanged looks that suggested they weren't quite sure whether to take him seriously.

Walker's eyes made another pass over us before coming back to rest on Adrian. It was clear from his expression that he meant every word—that we were entering a new era under his leadership.

"And let me be clear," he added with a finality that left no room for argument, "I expect you all to set an example. Eyes are on this team now and will continue to be as you transition to your professional careers. I hope I can count on the Titans to be leaders both on and off the ice. Show me – show everyone – what this team is really made of."

With a nod to Coach Morgan, he turned to leave. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen."

As he walked away, the blonde girl followed close behind, her ponytail swinging with each step. Sinclaire's eyes trailed after her, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

The moment the door closed behind them, Coach Morgan rounded on Eren and me. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. "You two," he growled, pointing a finger at us. "Figure out your shit, or don't bother showing up tomorrow night."

The ultimatum hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. I could feel the weight of my teammates' stares, the unspoken questions and judgments. Eren and I stood there, bruised and bloodied, the physical evidence of our unresolved issues on display for all to see.

Coach Morgan's gaze swept over the rest of the team. "Hit the showers," he barked. "We're done for today."

The team began to disperse, skates scraping against the ice as they made their way off the rink. I stood there for a moment longer, my chest heaving, my mind reeling. Eren and I exchanged a glance—a fleeting moment of understanding amidst the chaos.

I bent down to pick up my stick and gloves; the movement sending a jolt of pain through my bruised ribs. Eren did the same, his split lip still oozing blood. We straightened up and faced each other, the air between us thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

"Didn't sleep much last night," Eren muttered.

"Yeah," I agreed.

And that was it.

That was all that needed to be said.

We skated off the ice, but even I knew nothing would stop the change already seeping between us. Not when Addison was standing between us.

Not when I would sacrifice anyone and anything for her.

Including, and especially, Eren.