27. Brayden

Chapter twenty-seven

Brayden

T his week has been harder than expected. I've barely been able to see Mr. Stiles. I could only do the two extra classes this week because I had extra training for the game today and in those classes, Mr. Stiles was annoyingly professional. I get it. He wants to help me, but it was painfully distracting when he was talking and his words blurred into nothing. Because all I wanted to do was leap on to him and crash my lips to his.

Lines blurred.

He was just any teacher.

Who I then found hot.

Who I then got feelings for.

I never truly understood what feelings felt like until I tasted Mr. Stiles.

It has to be feelings; I've never felt anything like this before. The butterflies that won't die the fuck down. They're constant from the minute I wake up to the minute I go to bed. And why is that? Because from the minute I wake up to the minute I go to bed, all I do is think of Mr. Stiles. His face, his lips, his body. It's a never-ending cycle of images in my mind.

But also, it hasn't escaped me, and everyone else around me, that for once I'm happy.

Cope keeps telling Kal and Tray that I'm whistling every morning and even hear me singing in the shower. Kal and Tray nearly dropped their drinks when they heard that. I eye rolled them and told them they were being dramatic. But they're not. When have I ever whistled or sung in the shower? Never.

Kal has been eyeing me suspiciously lately, and it's killing me not telling Kal and Tray about Mr. Stiles. It doesn't sit right with me. I never hide things from them, but I can't tell them this. They won't understand.

No one will. Tray is convinced it's because of Lan. Kal, being the weird detective he is, is adamant it's not Lan, and it's someone else, but he can't work out who.

I've told them I'm just happy that things are looking up with Bex, which I am.

Singing in the shower happily is a tad farfetched though.

"I need you to make me proud today, boys. You have worked your fucking ass for this week. Now get out there and show these Chicago Cheetahs what the Devil Hawks are about!"

I go to put my headphones in, but the coach interrupts me. "Anders, get your ass over here." Here we go.

"Sure thing, Coach," I reply, trudging toward him, already laced up in my skates, eager to hit the ice.

"Your brother isn't here today, is he?" His gaze bores into mine.

"No, Coach." I chuckle.

"Good. I want nothing fucking today up, Anders. Fuck them up in play, shatter them with your mind, but no blood." He pauses. "On purpose."

"Nothing will go wrong today, Coach. We got this." I wink at him and turn around, going back to the locker to grab my phone.

"Shatter them, Quake," Coach mutters behind me.

"Always," I toss back, my gaze sweeping the room. Kal's lost in thought, plotting his next move like a seasoned detective. Tray, on the other hand, flips his lucky coin—a jewel no one dares touch. And then there's me, lost in a song that resurrects memories of better days.

Slipping on my headphones, I sink into weightlessness. Bexley's voice fills my mind, and I know those moments will return, the goofy friendship, the shared laughter. A smile tugs at my lips; today feels promising. I'm ready to shatter the cheetahs. If only Mr. Stiles could witness it.

In a home game, he'd be there. But my phone buzzes, interrupting the song. I ignore it, appreciating the music. As the last note fades, I glance at my screen, grinning. Then, poof—my phone vanishes.

"Tray, I'm not fucking around. Give it back now." My heart races as Tray stands behind Kal as if he will do anything, but even Kal is raising an eyebrow at my reaction. My phone is locked, and Tray can't get on the text thread, but he can see what Mr. Stiles sent me and I have no idea what it even says. Hot flushes travel through me as I pin Tray with a serious expression putting my hand out for the phone.

"I'm not fucking around." I should have known Tray wouldn't give a shit if he pissed me off. He peeks down at the phone and frowns, and then his eyes meet mine. They widen as a smile broadens into a full-blown grin.

"The fact I love you, I won't say anything out loud, but, Kal," he says, showing Kal the screen, who frowns down and then shifts his attention to me.

"Fuck's sake," I mutter.

Kal eyebrows meet his hairline as he says. "Not gonna lie, I'm shocked," he admits.

Tray, quieter now, approaches. His eyes bore into mine, curiosity laced with confusion.

"You? Brayden Anders. A sub?" he whispers. I open my mouth to protest, then it hits me. Snatching the phone from Tray, I glance down.

Sir:

S2R8S24

Mr. Stiles asked for my number and told me not to save him under something discreet. I didn't think about how it would look to someone else, though. Now they think I'm submissive, which is laughable.

"Is that some kink code or something?" Tray asks, walking behind me as I head back to my locker to put my phone away.

"No, Tray." I sigh out. Rubbing my temple, I try to work out what I can say, but there is nothing. I will have to let them think I'm a sub. This is a fucking joke. As I approach my locker, I glance down at the screen, frowning at Mr. Stiles' text. I have no idea what he's talking about.

Me:

??

What does that message even mean? I can't wait around for his reply. Everyone's streaming out of the changing room. I toss my phone into my locker and snatch my helmet.

"You're not getting off that easily," Tray whispers in my ear, leaning over my shoulder. "I want all the details."

"You're worse than a fucking girl," I hiss back. Suddenly, a firm hand lands on my ass, and I whip around to find Tray grinning.

"My bad—you probably got turned on by that," he quips, erupting into laughter. Kal joins in. And I wonder why I'm friends with these idiots.

As we step out onto the ice, the stadium echoes with the collective roar of the crowd. The ice awaits, pristine and unforgiving. My eyes sweep across the sea of colors—the Devil Hawks' faithful in black and red, a stark contrast to the Chicago Cheetahs' white and orange jerseys. It's an away game, but our supporters are here in force.

Kal taps his stick against my knee pads, a familiar pregame ritual. His head collides with mine, helmet to helmet. "What's the plan today, Quake?" he shouts, adrenaline in his eyes.

"We're shattering," I reply, my grin matching his intensity.

"That we are, baby." Kal winks, then glides off to claim his position on the ice. The game awaits, and we're ready to leave them in pieces.

I come head-to-head with the Cheetahs' forward. He's built like a fucking brick house that isn't coming down from no earthquake. Of course, on the one day I need to show the scouts what I'm about, I'm up against the fucking hulk.

But they say the bigger they are, the harder they fall. People shatter upon impact. His eyes, filled with pure hatred, lock onto mine. He knows me, and he aims to break me.

Not a chance.

On the ice, noise fades; it's just me, my teammates, the puck, and the goal. The rest? Mere obstacles to skate around. The brute opposite me smirks.

"Quake, isn't it?" he asks.

"And you are?" I question. His eyes darken—I've hit a nerve. "Actually," I add, "you're the one with that . . . mom." His anger flares, and from the corner of my eye, I see the puck ascend. This is my moment.

"What mom?" he grits.

I wink. "The mom that sucks great dick."

It works every fucking time. The shock freezes them for that second just enough time to get the upper hand. I breeze past him, my speed too much for him to right himself. I instantly pass the puck to Kal as we push forward, but then, out of nowhere, the opposing brute blindsides Kal, stealing the puck. Kal collides with the boards, wincing. I'm already racing up the ice. Cope signals, and I know what's coming.

The brute may be a wall, but Cope's speed defies physics. He maneuvers around, leaving the brute bewildered. The puck connects with Cope's stick, slicing through the ice to meet Tray's blade. I surge forward, eyes on the opposing goal, seeking an opening. But a body check sends me sprawling. I'm up instantly, Tray passing the puck to Kal. He weaves through defenders, the puck dancing on his stick. And then, in a flash, the light ignites—the scoreboard confirms it. Kal scores.

We all skate over to him and he hits my knee pads with his stick, smiling. The next faceoff—the puck escapes me, and the Cheetahs seize the upper hand, scoring within seconds. Annoyance simmers, but we stay in the game. They're a relentless team, one I underestimated during my hasty research. Body checks rain down—I taste blood, but it fuels me. The ache is my lifeline, the ice my sanctuary. Maxton, worn and bloodied, faces the brute. He won't let us down. Overtime looms—a single goal will rewrite our fate. The puck meets my stick; the goal consumes my vision. I unwind my brain—obstacles blur. You've conquered worse; this is no different, I tell myself. The opposing team come together, quick and merciless. I dip, weave, slide the puck to Tray. He passes it back—a dance of trust. I speed toward the net—the goal, my singular purpose. Their defense tackles me, stick against stick. The stadium vibrates—the fans' screams blend with the stick's echo. The net becomes my universe, the crowd a distant hum. I flick the puck, no longer bound by ice. It sails through the goalie's legs.

And then—the eruption.

We won.

Victory tastes like blood and echoes in my bones.