28
TYLER
Two weeks into the new year, and I'm playing the best hockey of my career.
Two weeks since the laundry room, since Nora and I admitted we're in love, since everything changed and nothing changed at the same time. We're together but hiding it, sleeping in separate rooms but sneaking kisses in the kitchen when Harper's napping, and maintaining a professional distance in public while being completely gone on each other in private.
It's torture. Beautiful, amazing, frustrating torture.
But my game's never been better. I'm focused and confident, playing like I have something to prove. Which I do—I have everything to prove. To Reaper, to the team, to myself.
Tuesday morning practice starts normally enough. Drills, conditioning, the usual rhythm. I'm on my game, hitting every pass, setting up plays, making the guys around me better.
And Reaper hates it.
I can see it in the way he watches me, the way his jaw clenches when Coach praises a play I made, the way he deliberately skates past me without acknowledgment during water breaks.
We're running a neutral zone drill, and Ipick off a pass cleanly, turn it up ice, and feed Danny for a scoring chance. Clean execution, textbook play.
"Nice read, West," Coach calls out.
Reaper's glare could melt the ice.
Twenty minutes later, we're in a scrimmage. I'm backchecking hard, staying with my man, playing responsible two-way hockey. Reaper's on the opposite team, and every time we're on the ice together, I can feel the hostility radiating off him.
I'm battling for position in front of the net when it happens.
Reaper's stick comes up hard between my shoulder blades, a cross-check that's way more forceful than necessary. I stumble forward, catching myself on my hands, and before I can fully recover, he does it again. It’s harder this time, his stick driving into the same spot.
"What the fuck?" I grunt, getting to my feet.
"Keep your head up, West." Reaper skates away as if nothing happened.
The whistle doesn't blow. Coach saw it; I know he saw it because he's standing right there, but he doesn't call it.
Danny's at my side immediately. "You good?"
"Yeah."
I'm not good. My back is screaming, and I'm furious, but I can't show it. I refuse to give Reaper the satisfaction.
Practice continues, and it gets worse. Every shift that I'm out there with Reaper, he takes liberties. Rough checks along the boards, stick work that's borderline dirty, and physical intimidation that would definitely be penalties in a real game.
During another scrimmage, I'm skating hard on a breakout when Reaper hits me from behind. Not a legal check—not even close—and I go face-first into the boards so hard my helmet rattles. My lip catches on something, my mouthguard, maybe, and I taste blood.
I push off the boards slowly, my entire body throbbing, and this time the whistle finally blows.
But it's not for the hit. It's a normalstoppage.
Liam's at the bench when I skate over. "Dude. That was fucked up."
"It's fine."
"That's not fine. That's not even close to fine." He's looking at Reaper with open disgust. "Someone needs to say something."
"To whom? Coach?" I spit blood into my water bottle. "He doesn't care."
"This is bullshit, West."