Harper will be up again in an hour and a half. We'll meet in the hallway, and we'll both pretend this didn't happen, that nothing shifted, that it was just exhaustion and the middle of the night and nothing that means anything.
But something did shift.
And the most terrifying part isn't that it happened.
It's that lying here in the dark, pressing my palm against my shoulder where his arm was, I can't quite make myself wish it hadn't.
13
TYLER
Training camp is exactly as miserable as I remember.
Day one starts with conditioning drills that leave my legs screaming, and Coach Wilson barking times while we skate suicides until half the team is ready to puke. I push through, finishing in the top three, and nobody acknowledges it. Not even a nod.
Reaper's watching me the entire time with that cold assessment, like he's waiting for me to fuck up.
The power play drill comes next. I'm on the second unit, positioned at the circle where I should be getting feeds for one-timers. That's my job—shoot the puck. That's what I'm good at.
Reaper's running the first unit, and when Coach rotates us in, I'm open. Wide open. I'm in position, stick on the ice, calling for it.
Reaper looks directly at me.
Then passes it backward to the defenseman.
The play dies. Coach blows the whistle, clearly frustrated, and resets us.
"West is open on that," Coach says, but his voice lacks any real authority. More observation than instruction.
We run it again. I'm in position, stick ready, calling for it.
Reaper skates past me like I don't exist and forces a terrible shot from a bad angle that the goalie stops easily.
"Jesus Christ," someone mutters behind me. Might be Danny. Might be Liam. Hard to tell through helmets.
Coach doesn't say anything this time, just resets the drill for the next group.
By the time we move to scrimmages, I'm wound so tight I'm vibrating with frustration.
The hitting starts immediately.
Reaper catches me with a check along the boards that's harder than it needs to be, his elbow coming up just slightly, catching my ribs. Not enough to draw a penalty, but enough to knock the wind out of me.
"Sorry, West," he says, skating away, but he doesn't sound sorry at all.
The next shift, he cross-checks me in the back when I'm fighting for position in front of the net. The stick comes up sharp between my shoulder blades, and I go down harder than I should, catching myself on my hands.
The whistle doesn't blow.
Coach is watching. I can see him standing behind the bench, but he doesn’t say anything or call it. Just lets it happen.
I get up, skate back to the bench, and nobody says a word.
This is my life. This is what I signed up for when I took more money to come here, when I thought a better contract meant a better situation. I didn't know Reaper would decide I was the enemy the second I walked through the door.
By the time practice ends at noon, I'm drained and furious and so fucking lonely I want to scream.
I shower quickly, get dressed, and leave before anyone tries to talk to me. Not that anyone would. I eat lunch in my car in the parking lot, which consists of a protein bar and a banana. Nothing that requires sitting in the team cafeteria, where I'd be invisible anyway.