8. Ryan

I sitin the locker room, my jaw clenched so tight it aches as I aggressively tape up my hockey sticks with jerky motions. The rough tape bites into my palms as I rip off strips with my teeth. Jerky, aggressive motions fueled by the anger boiling in my gut. I can practically hear the plastic crack under the force of my hands.

Practice ended twenty minutes ago, but I'm still in the locker room, jaw clenched like a steel trap.

Exhaustion weighs heavy on my shoulders, seeping into my bones. Back-to-back away games in goddamn Minnesota. Flying, bussing, checking into hotels at 2 a.m. The grind of the season is nothing new, but today, the weariness feels like lead in my skates.

And it's not just the travel and quick turnaround dragging me down. It's him.

Lukas fucking Dvorak.

I see that smug grin flashing in my mind, hear the obnoxious whoops after he dangled and scored top shelf in last night's game. The way he smirked skating past our bench, so damn pleased with himself.

Classic Dvorak—always needing to be the center of attention, the star of the show. Forget being a team player.

My knuckles turn white around the shaft of my stick as I finish taping the blade.

I know I need to let it go, not let Lukas crawl under my skin and fester. But pushing down the resentment feels like trying to hold a beach ball underwater—it keeps popping back up, mocking me. This shit with Lukas, it runs deep.

Goes all the way back to that cursed weekend in college that soured everything…

As I make my way out to the ice for warm-ups, my mind drifts back to that night, the one that shattered my world.

I had brought my high school girlfriend Madison with me to visit my best friend Slade at college and catch their hockey team play. But what should have been a fun weekend turned into my worst nightmare.

I found Madison naked in bed with Slade's cocky roommate and teammate Lukas.

She was riding him with wild abandon, her head thrown back in ecstasy, nails raking down his chest as she bucked and grinded on top of him. Low moans spilled from her lips between panting breaths. Her body glistened with a sheen of sweat.

I'd never seen Madison so uninhibited, so hungry with lust and sexual need. Not in all the tender, awkward times we'd made love. But there she was, letting loose for a fucking stranger, Lukas, in a way she never had with me.

The shock punched me in the gut, a brutal betrayal that stole my breath. Then came the scorching rage, a fury that eclipsed everything.

I loved Madison, trusted her completely. I thought we had a real future together. I took our relationship as seriously as I take everything in my life.

And she threw it all away for a quick fuck with some arrogant prick she'd just met.

When Lukas saw me standing there, he just smirked, not a shred of remorse on his smug face. Like getting with my girlfriend was some sort of game he'd won. He'd sweet-talked Madison right out of her panties, not even trying to hide it from me.

Made me feel like the world's biggest fool.

Rage and betrayal had ripped through me, a sickening cocktail of emotions I had no clue how to handle at barely 18 years old. I stormed out of their dorm seeing red, fists clenched, a roar trapped in my throat.

My skates hit the ice now, and I shake my head, trying to physically dispel the intrusive thoughts. I line up some pucks on the blue line to run shooting drills, the cold air welcome in my burning lungs.

Even now, a decade later, playing on the same pro team as Lukas…I can't completely escape the scorching bitterness that has trailed me all this time.

The wound has long scarred over, but the flesh still feels raw some days.

Like today.

When all it takes is one of Lukas's self-satisfied grins to rip it wide open again and remind me that some guys just don't fucking change.

I slam a puck at the net with more force than necessary, satisfaction surging through me at the sharp crack of stick meeting rubber. But the feeling is short-lived as my gaze drifts across the ice and catches on a scene that makes my jaw clench.

Emma, our social media manager, is setting up her camera by the boards, her face alight with a smile that could thaw the rink. And of course, Lukas is right there, skating over to her with that signature cocky swagger that makes my blood boil.

Lukas leans in close, his mouth at Emma's ear, and I watch as she laughs at whatever undoubtedly suave bullshit he's feeding her.

Emma playfully shoves him away but he's undeterred, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a smirk that I know all too well. His fingers linger on her cheek, and I feel my grip tighten on my stick, an irrational surge of irritation rising in my chest.

It's not like I have any claim over Emma. She's a coworker, one I barely know. But I've heard the way Lukas talks about her when she's not around—the lewd jokes, the crass speculation about what she's like in bed.

Like she's just another puck bunny for him to conquer. Another starry-eyed fan for him to use and discard.

Emma deserves better than that. Any woman does.

And yet here she is, laughing at Lukas's lines like she can't see right through his act. Like she doesn't know she's just his flavor of the week. The rational part of my brain knows it's not my place to intervene, that Emma is a grown woman who can make her own choices.

But the other part, the part that's apparently still smarting from decade-old wounds, wants to put myself between them. Wants to tell her to run far and fast from smooth-talkers with devastating smiles.

I force myself to look away, to focus on the drills and not the building frustration bubbling under my skin.

But I can still feel it, the weight of unresolved history, the specter of betrayal that even now colors how I see my teammate.

How I see myself, in my weaker moments.

Lukas has skated away from Emma and is now up to his usual shit, pulling off flashy moves and shooting that cocky grin at the younger players who stare at him in awe.

I mentally rebuke myself, and try to focus on my own warm-up, blocking out the sound of his obnoxious laughter echoing off the walls. Just stick to the drills, I tell myself. Don't let him get in your head.

But of course, Lukas can never resist an opportunity to screw me over. We line up for a standard breakout drill, me ready at the blue line waiting for his pass. I shout out the defensive call, but Lukas deliberately ignores me. The smirk on his stupid face tells me it's no accident as he sends the puck flying to the opposing forward instead, leaving me completely hung out to dry.

The forward barrels towards me at full speed. I barely get my stick up in time to deflect the shot wide, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I whip around to confront Lukas, he's already skating away, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face.

Red bleeds into my vision, narrowing to a tunnel focused only on Lukas's retreating form. My gloved hand grips my stick so tightly I'm amazed it doesn't snap in two. I surge forward, chasing after him, not giving a damn about the drills anymore.

Suddenly, Slade appears in front of me, his big hand planted firmly on my heaving chest.

"Easy, man," Slade says, his deep voice low and steady. "Don't let him get to you. That's what he wants."

I suck in a ragged breath, slowly unclenching my fists inside my gloves. Slade's calm gray-blue eyes hold mine, willing me to keep my shit together. He's right.

Losing my cool now, right before this crucial game, would be playing right into Lukas's hands.

I give Slade a tight nod. "Yeah. I know. Thanks."

He claps me on the shoulder before skating off. I close my eyes briefly, pushing down the rage that's building inside me. Later. I'll deal with Lukas later. For now, the only thing that matters is playing my best damn game.

The team is counting on me.

When the puck drops to start the first period, I channel all my pent-up anger and frustration straight into my play. I ram guys into the boards with enough force to rattle teeth, scrambling for every loose puck, flinging myself in front of shots without hesitation.

But even as I pour everything I've got into the game, Lukas seems determined to one-up me at every turn. Near the end of the first, he unleashes a filthy deke, undressing not one but two defensemen before rifling the puck into the top corner. The red goal light flashes as the crowd leaps to its feet, roaring its approval.

Lukas glides past the bench, arms raised in triumph, drinking in the adulation. I feel the hot sting of bile rising in the back of my throat. It's just like that goddamn college visit all over again—Lukas getting all the glory while I get stuck with sloppy seconds.

I know I'm being petty.

I know I should be focused on the team, on winning.

But I can't help the jealousy coiling like a poisonous snake in my gut as Lukas laps up the cheers, the smug set of his jaw making me want to introduce it to my fist.

The clock ticks down to the final minute of the third period, and we're clinging to a precarious one-goal lead. My lungs burn and my legs feel like rubber, but I know I can't let up now. Not with the game on the line.

I dig deep, willing my exhausted body to keep battling as I chase down a loose puck in the corner. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lukas gliding into the defensive zone, his stick held lazily at his side.

"Lukas!" I bellow, my voice hoarse with desperation. "Pick up your man!"

But it's too late. Lukas makes a careless pass, sending the puck skittering right onto the tape of an opposing forward. The guy doesn't hesitate, snapping a quick wrister that beats our goalie blocker side.

The goal horn sounds, and my stomach drops like a stone. Tie game. Sudden death overtime looming. And it's all Lukas's fault.

White-hot rage surges through my veins, obliterating the pain and fatigue. I charge across the ice, skating right up into Lukas's face.

"What the actual fuck was that?" I snarl, my voice shaking with barely-contained fury. "You just cost us the goddamn game!"

Lukas pulls off his helmet and shoves me hard in the chest, his green eyes flashing with anger. "Back off, man. It was one fucking mistake."

But I'm beyond reason, beyond control. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm winding up, my gloved fist crashing into Lukas's perfect jaw with a sickening crack.

Instantly, the ice erupts into chaos.

Players from both teams swarm us, gloves and sticks littering the ice as they try to pry us apart. The refs' whistles screech, signaling penalties as Lukas and I grapple and swear.

My pulse pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out the outraged roar of the crowd. Adrenaline sings in my blood, and my knuckles throb with a dull, satisfying ache.

As the linesmen finally separate us, the enormity of what I've done starts to sink in. This will mean a suspension for sure. Fines. Maybe even legal consequences.

But in that moment, I can't bring myself to care. All I feel is the savage rush of catharsis, the vindication of finally releasing years' worth of pent-up resentment and jealousy in one perfect punch.

Lukas can have his golden boy charm and his highlight reel goals.

Right now, the only thing that matters is the look of stunned disbelief on his bleeding face and the knowledge that I put it there.