35. Dj

CHAPTER 35

DJ

I grit my teeth as I take another lap around the ice at practice, trying to ignore the twinges of pain shooting through my knee with every stride.

I should probably be resting, letting my body heal, but with the playoffs in full swing and the team's morale at rock bottom after Mikey's drug-induced blow-up with the owners went viral, I can't afford to show any weakness.

Gotta keep up the facade of DJ the indestructible stallion, even if my body's screaming otherwise underneath the pads.

And even if all I can think about is the voicemail from Sydney last night, shattering the fragile thing that she and I and Tyler had been building…

I shut down that line of thought. I can't think about Sydney if I want to be at all functional during practice.

The news about Mikey fell like a bomb in the locker room. I skate past huddles of the guys muttering grimly about the social media shitstorm.

"—PR nightmare. Trending on Twitter all night?—"

"—suspension for sure. At the worst possible time?—"

The toll it's taking is plain to see. Nerves are frayed raw. During drills, guys snap at each other over botched passes.

"Watch the fucking puck, Rook!" Lukas snarls at the new guy after a sloppy turnover. The poor kid blanches like he took a sucker punch to the gut.

On breaks, the team's usual banter dies on their lips. Everyone just slumps against the boards, eyes vacant, lost in their own heads. Slade gives me a hopeless look. I can tell he's been trying all morning to get the guys to shape up, but no dice so far.

Pulling myself together, I try to inject some pep, get everyone focused on the task at hand. "Let's clean it up out there, boys! Playoffs on the line. No passengers—we need all hands on deck!"

My voice strains with projected positivity, but inside, I'm fraying at the seams. How am I supposed to hold this ship together when my own foundation is crumbling? This shit with Syd is throwing me way off my game.

She's shutting me and Ty out, slipping through our fingers, and I have no idea how to put everything right.

We're halfway through the latest drill when things start to really fall apart. At first all I notice is that some of the team isn't where they're supposed to be on the ice. Gaps yawn where usually there'd be bodies filling the lanes.

Then I realize why—Nikolai's off his angle, lagging behind the play. And so is Marcus… shit .

I charge across the ice, my skates sparking shavings as I throw myself between the two of them. They're grappling like a pair of angry bears, gloves and sticks scattered around them.

"Break it up, you meatheads!" I yell, trying to pry them apart.

Their sweaty jerseys slip through my fingers. My own frustration is bubbling up inside me, ready to blow. It's been building all damn practice.

Nikolai spits out his mouth guard. "Stay out of this, DJ! This prick needs to learn how to pass."

"Screw you," Marcus snarls back. "Maybe if you could skate half as fast as you run your mouth?—"

I shove my way between them again as they lunge for each other. "I said knock it off!"

Marcus sneers at me, his lip curling. "Oh, look who's talking. Big man DJ, always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. I see you trotting after Sydney like a little puppy dog. You sniffing around the new shrink or something? Bet it'd be easy enough to dazzle her, use her and lose her like everyone else who's unfortunate enough to land in your bed. How about you focus on that?"

My vision flashes red. I feel the anger rising up my throat like bile.

How dare he bring Sydney into this, implying I'm taking advantage of her?

He has no idea about the connection we have, the way she makes me feel seen and understood for once in my life...

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," I growl.

"Hit a nerve, huh? You're just pissed Sydney won't let you hit something else..." Marcus makes a crude gesture and the other guys snicker.

Something snaps inside me.

Without even thinking, I rear back and my fist collides with his jaw with a sickening crack.

Marcus staggers back, eyes wild with shock and fury. Before I can even process what I've done, he launches himself at me in a flurry of fists.

We tumble to the ice in a tangle of limbs, gouging and pummeling each other like rabid dogs. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as his knuckles smash against my teeth. Searing pain lances through my already battered knee when it twists beneath his weight.

Dimly, I'm aware of the chaos erupting around us—skates scraping, voices shouting, hands grabbing at our jerseys trying to haul us apart. But I'm too far gone, operating on pure primal instinct as I snarl and thrash against Marcus's grip.

It takes three guys to pry us apart, our chests heaving, glaring daggers at each other across the ice.

Coach's livid voice cuts through the haze of rage and adrenaline.

"Johnston! LeBlanc! What in the ever-loving fuck was that? You wanna beat the shit out of each other, you do it on your own time, not on my goddamn ice!"

His face a mask of disappointment, he gestures furiously at the mess we've made in the brawl—blood spatters on the ice, equipment scattered everywhere. "Hit the showers, both of you. And don't even think about suiting up next game until you get your heads out of your asses."

Shame sits like a lead weight in my gut as I limp toward the locker room, the adrenaline leaching out of my system and leaving behind only throbbing pain and bitter regret.

What the fuck was I thinking, throwing hands with Marcus like that? Letting him get under my skin, giving in to my anger? Some role model I am, completely losing my shit in front of the whole damn team.

I can feel their eyes boring into my back, a mix of shock and judgement and pity that makes my skin crawl. The great DJ Johnston, unraveling at the seams for all to see. Pathetic.

Stripping off my sweat-soaked gear with jerky, agitated movements, I don't meet anyone's gaze. The only one I want to look at right now is the one person who seems to be avoiding me like the plague.

Where the hell is Tyler?

I scan the room, but his stall is empty, his pads and skates nowhere to be seen. Did he book it out of here the second practice ended, not even bothering to wait for me? The thought sits like a stone in my chest.

I know I shouldn't push, but more than anything I want to talk to Sydney right now. Somehow I know that she'll be the only one who gets it.

But that's not an option right now. After I shower and get dressed, I decide to head upstairs for some fresh air, maybe that will help me clear my head.

As I'm leaving the locker room, Grady says, "Yo, DJ! Coach is looking for you man?—"

"Can't talk now bro, gotta hustle!" I shout over my shoulder, slipping past him. The fluorescent lights of the narrow hallway blur as I pick up speed. More shouts and the scuff of cleats on the rubber mat flooring chase after me. These fools aren't gonna let me off easy.

I'm closing in on the metal double doors at the end of the hall when— shit . Coach's unmistakable broad silhouette steps out from the equipment room. I hit the brakes so hard I nearly wipe out.

Nope, not happening, I am not ready for the verbal thrashing he's gonna unleash on my ass.

Whirling around, I dash back the other way, shouldering my way through the gaggle of dudes gathering to gawk at my walk of shame.

"Move, I'm coming through!" Keeping my eyes downcast, I brush past them and beeline for the stairwell.

Taking the steps two at a time, I emerge onto the roof, the chilly air whipping across my overheated skin.

Chest heaving, I stalk to the edge and grip the metal railing, the city skyline wavering in my vision.

"Shit," I groan, tilting my head back. I royally screwed the pooch back there. The media shitstorm, Mikey acting the fool, Syd caught in the crosshairs trying to clean up the mess...

It's all turned to chaos.

And then there's the dull ache pulsing in my knee.

I pace back and forth, thoughts racing.

This thing with Syd and Ty... We fit, I can feel it deep in my bones. But both of them are wrestling demons that make my issues look like a paper cut.

I want to be there for them, take on their battles.

Syd's got such a bleeding heart, wanting to save the world. And Ty, king of the mind-fuck, convinced he has to be something he's not...

Before I even realize what I'm doing, my feet carry me back down the stairs and through the now empty halls. Like a goddamn magnet, I'm drawn to her, ending up in front of Syd's office door, fist poised to knock. I hesitate.

Maybe this is a bad idea. We both need space, time to process this fuckery.

I should respect her request from the voicemail last night, not push her right now. But I ache with missing her, missing them , so viscerally my vision nearly blurs.

I can't leave it like this.

Rapping my knuckles against the wood, I suck in a sharp breath. "Syd? You in there? It's me. Can we talk?"