Chapter 2 - Stone

Five years later.

The cold air bites at my skin as I step onto the ice. Lynwood University’s rink is smaller than the one at my old college in Pennsylvania, but I like its charm. Besides, I needed a change in scenery, and Connecticut is as good a place as any.

It helped that I had an easy in on their team.

I skate a lazy circle around center ice, ignoring the handful of spectators already in the stands waiting for their buddies or boyfriends to start practice. I always show up early when I can, needing the silence before the chaos, before the violence. The familiar chill that sinks into my bones as I skate alone is part of a ritual that quiets at least some of the noise in my head.

A few minutes into my solo session, the team shows up from the locker rooms, all of them wearing either black, orange, or white practice sweaters.

“Wakefield!”

The coach is with them, and I skate over to the bench where he’s called me. As a few of the players are stepping out into the rink, I come to a stop in front of the wall, digging the edges of my blades into the ice.

“Attention, ladies,” Coach calls out unnecessarily. All eyes are already on me. “Allow me to introduce your new first-line center. This is Stone Wakefield. He’s a grad transfer from Pennsylvania.”

I receive several chin nods and a few murmured heys.

“I still think Brooks should be on the first line. He’s earned it.”

It’s Nathan Simmons, the team captain, who speaks from his spot beside the coach. The second-line center would have been given my position had I not transferred to Lynwood. I made sure to memorize the roster before I showed up.

There was one familiar face on it that I knew I’d be seeing today, but I keep myself from searching him out. I don’t care enough to.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“It’s cool, Nate. Really,” Brooks says.

“Good man, Brooks.” Coach looks around at the guys as if waiting for any more objections. “Wakefield is a fifth year senior, and he has the most experience. He’s a good player. I had the pleasure of teaching him when he was in high school. He’s fast. Almost as fast as Hayes over here.”

And that’s when my eyes lock with Callum’s on the other side of the wall.

I can’t say I expected the cold look he’s pinning me with, the same one he gave me the last time we saw each other five years ago. Like he’d freeze me right to the ice if he could.

If he’s still upset about the shoulder, he’s in for a rude awakening.

Coach Hill always encouraged us to play as vicious and merciless during practice as we would in a real game. It’s one reason I respect him as much as I do and why I didn’t hesitate to accept his invitation to play for him when he found out I was looking to transfer.

As far as that little body check on Callum that day, Coach barely gave me a slap on the wrist for it. I wouldn’t have even gotten that had it not caused lasting damage. I wasn’t apologetic about it either. Callum may have made varsity because of his speed on the ice, but he was never as aggressive as he needed to be.

I hope that’s changed.

It’s not that I thought he was weak. I was only trying to coax out the fight in him that I sensed needed to be released.

I never got a chance to find out if it worked before he moved away.

He’s changed, at least physically.

He’s wearing a black sweater like mine, both of us on the first line. He’s a little taller, though still a couple inches shorter than me. From what I can tell beneath his pads, he’s filled out a considerable amount. His hair’s longer, brown strands falling over his forehead. He’s clean-shaven, nothing to hide the hard set of his jaw as he continues scowling at me. Despite the dark brown of his eyes, they hold the unyielding chill of the ice I stand on.

I give into the urge and respond with a smirk.

His jaw ticks.

There’s something else there too, beneath whatever animosity he feels for me. A hesitation, a kind of conflict that’s internal as much as it is external. Like I’m a ghost from his past come back to haunt him.

More like a demon.

Or a reaper.

The coach dismisses us, and everyone skates out onto the ice to warm up. Callum moves around the rink, and several of the other guys seem to gravitate toward him. It becomes clear that our roles have been reversed. Back in high school, the varsity team was mine . Callum’s been playing with these guys for three years, while I’ll have to earn their trust on and off the ice.

I can’t help but watch him while we warm up. He’s still fast. Maybe faster than he used to be. His movements are sharp and deliberate, like on the ice is where he feels most at home, most comfortable in his skin.

The ice is part of his armor.

But ice can be easy to break.

Not that I have any plans on doing that. The best thing for both of us is if I stay far away.

As we start on drills, I force my attention off of Callum and instead focus on learning how these guys play. Callum plays the same position he did in high school—left winger. Except he’s on the first line like me now, so he’ll be going onto the ice with me during every game. Instead of playing on opposite sides during scrimmages, we’ll have to figure out how to work together.

I have a feeling that’ll involve baby steps.

Coach has me running drills with Simmons, the captain and first-line right winger, along with our defensemen. I look over just in time to catch another of Callum’s glares from where he’s working with Brooks on one-touch passes on the other side of the rink.

Okay, so it’ll take a lot more than baby steps.

But that’s alright. I’m always up for a challenge.

Of which getting the puck past Fitz, the team’s starting goalie, is certainly not.

It’s no wonder the Lynwood Monarchs have never been to a championship.

Callum seriously better be ready to put whatever shit he has with me aside so we can actually fucking do something. This is my last year of hockey. I don’t plan on pursuing pro. I know I could. I’m sure as hell cocky enough to know I have what it takes.

However, I’m not cocky enough to put myself in an even brighter spotlight.

Not when I work best in the shadows.

After an hour and a half of practice, my muscles are screaming at me. I might have spent most of the summer doing… other things than keeping up with any kind of physical training. I should’ve visited the gym more, but I was a bit preoccupied.

I’m not exactly looking forward to strength and conditioning training bright and early tomorrow morning. I guess that’ll be the true test of just how out of shape I am when I find out if the screaming gets louder.

“Well, Wakefield,” Simmons says as we all head back to the locker room. “I suppose you can stick around.”

I let out a short, derisive laugh. “Thanks.”

I’m sure Callum would love to argue with that.

At least part of the first forward line doesn’t hate me.

After hanging up my stick, I remove my sweater as I walk over to my station. Coach spent this morning showing me around and helping me get settled in, so I feel right at home as I neatly hang up the black sweater with the large number “13” facing out.

As I swipe a hand over my forehead to move the hair sticking to it with sweat, I catch sight of the man standing at the station next to mine.

It’s Callum.

Of course it’s Callum.

His gaze meets mine, and, for a moment, it’s as if he’s frozen in time. A time in the past, back to that sixteen-year-old boy with that haunted look in his eyes when I caught him alone in a different locker room.

Only a few seconds later, he snaps out of it. He rolls his eyes as he lets out an exasperated sigh.

I find it amusing how I clearly affect him after all these years.

While I should probably be trying to defuse whatever bomb is ticking between us, I’m not about to apologize for something I’m not sorry for. So until he can get the fuck over it, he’ll have to deal with me being an asshole right back to him.

An eye for an eye.

A tooth for a tooth.

“How’s the shoulder, Hayes?” I ask as I remove my pads and hang those up too.

“Why?” He doesn’t turn to look at me again as he starts taking off his own layers and hanging them up in his station. “Plan on injuring it again?”

I let out another short laugh, nothing more than a breath through my nose. “Nah. Need my wingers in top shape.”

“Call me your winger again, and we’re going to have a problem, Wakefield.”

“Funny. I thought we already did.” I turn to him as he’s removing his pads, revealing his base layer that’s clinging to well-defined muscles. He’s definitely filled out since high school, but he’s still leaner than me. “Or was I mistaking bedroom eyes for loathing?”

He scowls again.

Nope, definitely loathing.

“Fuck off, Stone.”

He pushes past me, leaving me chuckling quietly.

Peering over my other shoulder, I watch as he disappears into the showers. I guess he doesn’t have as much of an aversion to showering in the locker room as he once did.

Not that I blamed him once I understood the reason.

If Callum knew I killed his stepdad, would he hate me more?

Or less?