Chapter 14

Riley

It’s almost time to walk out onto the ice, but I still haven’t heard anything from Amelia, making my anger of being ghosted turn into worry. I sit down to pull on my skates, and I see my phone light up.

I glance down, swiping the screen quickly to see if this is finally a reply from her. However, hope turns to lead in my chest as I see it—it's not her message, but something far more unsettling. Two images side by side: one of Amelia, her auburn hair framing her face, and another of Ms. Puck, the green wig making her look like a siren from some neon-drenched fantasy.

'One and the same?' taunts the caption beneath them. An unknown number stares back at me, no name to put to this faceless accuser. My stomach drops, the earlier tension replaced by a cold dread. This doesn’t look like it’s about fame or tabloids. I’ve seen things like that in the past. No, it's someone playing a game with Amelia’s secret—a secret that could shatter her world if her parents or family found out.

It honestly feels like I just got slammed into the boards. I can't shake the image, Amelia's face next to that damn green wig. My phone buzzes again in my hand. Another text, another unknown number.

I grip my phone tighter, thumb jabbing at the screen. A link glares up at me in bold blue letters. I tap it, every muscle tensing.

The page loads, and there it is—for all the world to see—Amelia's secret splashed across the top of some anonymous social media account. The same photos, the insidious question: 'One and the same?' My gut churns.

"Damn it," I mutter, anger and fear making me see red. She doesn't deserve this crap.

I toss my phone in my locker, but the images and the knowledge that it’s public weighs heavy on me. Who the hell did this?

My heart's pounding like I'm already mid-game, but it's not adrenaline fueling it—it's annoyance. I'm trying to lace up my skates with more force than necessary. The buzzing fluorescent lights of this place are too bright, the scent of muscle rub is too pungent.

"Cap, you good?" Zach's voice pulls me back to reality. He's leaning against his locker, one eyebrow cocked, a knowing look on his face.

"Perfect," I lie, snapping the final eyelet of my skate tight.

"Uh huh," he drawls. "You've got that look."

"Which look is that?"

"The 'I'd rather be throwing punches than preparing for the game."

Before I can conjure up a decent comeback, Jasper chimes in sarcastically from across the room. "Maybe he's just upset about missing his daily romantic comedy marathon. You know, feelings and all that."

"Shut it, Jazz," I snap, more harshly than intended. Jasper raises both hands in mock surrender, but his smirk says the opposite. Alfie, who's been quietly taping his stick nearby, shoots me a glance of confusion.

"Seriously, Cap," he says, "what's eating you? You're wound up too tight to do us any good out there today."

"Nothing," I bite out, standing up abruptly. I grab my helmet and smack it onto my head a little harder than necessary. It's a lie, and a lousy one at that. They all know it. Hell, the entire Blades roster probably knows it by now.

Zach pushes off from his locker, closing the distance between us. "Look, man, we need your head in the game. Whatever it is, park it for now." His blue-green eyes lock onto mine. "We need our captain."

"Right," I relent, exhaling a shaky breath. "Let's do this," I say, trying to inject some of the usual confidence into my voice, hoping it sounds more convincing to them than it does to me. "We're the Blades. Let's go carve up some ice."

"Damn straight," Zach grins, bumping his fist against mine, and even Jasper nods, a silent truce between us.

"Blades on three?" Alfie suggests, offering a rallying point.

"Blades on three," I echo, and my teammates gather around, hands stacked over each other in the center of our circle.

"1... 2... 3... BLADES!" we shout in unison, voices echoing off the white tiles, making me forget about being upset. I forget about everything except the ice, the puck, and the brothers I have beside me.

Skates laced tight, I stride toward the rink. Ice crunches underfoot, and the sound from the crowd bounces off the walls.

"Cap, you with us?" Jasper asks. I glance at him, his brows creased. The guy can read me a little two well.

"Head's in the game," I say, more to convince myself than them. It has to be. The Michigan Vikings are out there waiting, ready to pounce and go for the win.

"Better be," Alfie chimes in, his usual smirk replaced with a grim line. "We're about to dance with the devil, and they ain't known for their mercy."

"Let 'em come," Zach adds, tapping his stick against mine. "We'll show 'em what the Blades have brought today."

Their words are the shot of adrenaline that I need. I know what's at stake, what we're up against. The Vikings. They're the team you love to hate, the rival champions.

I nod, feeling the weight of the 'C' stitched onto my jersey.

"Time to cut deep, men," I say. "Let's make those Vikings wish they never left their longboats."

Laughter ripples through my teammates, and, together, we get in position for the puck to drop.

The clash of our sticks against the Vikings' feels like a call to arms. They’ve brought their aggressive side today. I can almost taste the fight brewing.

"Keep your head, Cap," Jasper grunts as his shoulder pad brushes mine while he passes by. I nod, even though part of me is itching for the confrontation. It's like there's something in the water when we go up against the Vikings—we just can't help but drop gloves.

"Watch your six!" Alfie shouts, a second before a Viking slams into me from behind. I stagger but stay upright. I grind my teeth, holding back. The last thing we need is a penalty. But man, do I want to wipe that smug grin off his face.

Focus on the puck, not fists.