one of the best teams? Sloppy passes, missed goals that should have been easy. Refs are going to hammer them with penalties.
It’s going to be a long season if they don’t get their shit together and start gelling out here.
Oiler shoots a pass to Albrooke, who races up the center toward the blue line but misses. I snag it and fling the puck toward the opposite side of the ice, the movement makes me grimace as it pulls on the incision. Albrooke growls as he changes direction and keeps moving.
“My blind uncle moves faster than you, Albrooke. And he has no feet.”
The goalie behind me grumbles something but I’m not paying attention to his mouth. I don’t give a shit what he thinks. These damn pads are rubbing on my new stitches and it’s irritating the fuck out of me. The sweat dripping down my skin burns.
Oiler trips over his own fucking skates and falls on his ass, missing the pass Johnson sends him.
“Jesus fucking Christ, my sister skates better than you do and she’s never worn a pair.”
“What the fuck is your problem?” Albrooke shoves me but I barely budge.
“Maybe if you focused less on getting laid, and more on the game,” my eyes flick to Oiler, images of Jeremy’s flushed face while he was getting fucked flashes through my head for a second before coming back to my pissed off roommate, “you’d play better. Get your priorities straight.”
“Fuck you!” He shoves me again, getting in my face this time. The strange coloring of his eyes bright in the lights of the rink. One eye is half blue and half brown while the other is blue with brown spots. It’s haunting. “You don’t know shit about me!”
“I know you aren’t committed to this game or this team. None of you are or I’d see a lot more of you all in the fucking gym and out here on the ice running drills. You’re all doing the bare minimum. Take some initiative. Have some pride in yourself.” I shove him out of my space. “Want me to stop ragging on you? Prove me wrong. I dare you.”
All this whiny baby bullshit has gotten on my last fucking nerve. I’m done with it. Suck it up and do better or shut your fucking mouth.
Coach blows the whistle to call the end of practice and everyone trudges to the locker room.
I’m the last one off the ice on purpose. I slide my gear off into my cubby but leave my base layer on. I’ll shower later in our dorm or in the gym locker room where I can have privacy.
The guys strip down and head into the showers, half of them angry at being called out, the other half hanging their heads as my words hit hard. Hopefully they’ll take what I said to heart and start proving me wrong. I want them to.
“Too good to shower with the team?” one of the guys on the first line says on his way past me.
“I’m not done working.” I throw back. He stops for a second, looking confused. “I have three miles to run then free weights.” Poor kid’s eyes widen before he shakes his head and follows along into the showers.
Coach comes along and slaps me on the shoulder. “Good hustle.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
I slip on my sneakers, grab my gym bag, and head out of the locker room, not caring that the base layer fits like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination. I’m in extremely good shape and am not embarrassed by my body at all. The scars are kept a secret because it’s easier. It’s safer for everyone around me. And it means people don’t touch me. I hate being touched.
In one of the stalls in the gym locker room, I change into running shorts and a t-shirt. It’s more comfortable than the long sleeves and leggings.
Popping my earbuds in, I find a treadmill and start up my playlist. The loud beat of the NF and Citizen Soldier pounding in my ears matches the tempo of my pulse. There’s no one else in here, just me and the slap of my feet on the belt. The thoughts that constantly plague me running rampant.
No one can know why I work as hard as I do. Hide the scars and the truth.
“You would be nothing without me. I’m making you better.”
“Your sister isn’t strong enough to withstand the correction, but I will break her if that’s what it takes to keep you in line.”
My stomach turns violently and I’m forced to pull the emergency stop rope on the machine. Bent over with my hands on my knees, I breathe through the nausea. Lily has to be protected.
For the first time in a year, I dip out of my workout early. Guilt tries to drag me back.
If you don’t keep it up, you’re a failure. Father will know and you’ll be called back to the house for correction.
I run for the toilet and throw up the water I’ve been chugging for the last few hours during practice. My knees slamming into the cold tiles surrounding the toilet sends pain shooting up my legs but I can’t focus on it. The only thing that matters is making sure I don’t throw up on the floor. We must not leave evidence of our shortcomings. The world must believe we are perfect at all times.
No emotional breakdowns, no scandals.
My stomach clenches painfully as the contents are forced from my body. My t-shirt sticks to my back with sweat from my run, the sensation too tight on my body, like I’m suffocating. While I hang on to the toilet for dear life, I have to wonder what it’s like to have someone care enough to check on you. What’s it like for someone to bring a wet rag or a glass of water or just sit with you when you feel like shit? I haven’t had anyone care since my mom died. I was a child. The abuse was getting worse but I hid it from her too. I had to be strong for Lily and for Mom.
Once my stomach is empty, I sit back against the door of the stall with my knees pulled up and my arms resting on them, my head back against the cool metal. I wipe my face and mouth with the bottom of my shirt and hate the weakness.
Closing my eyes, I allow myself to have this moment. Just this once. To breathe.
When I stand up, I flush the toilet and head to the sink to rinse out my mouth. I should go finish my run and lift some weights before dinner. I need a shower and don’t want to risk taking one at the dorms since Jeremy God damn Albrooke doesn’t have any sense of privacy. As much as I don’t want to think about him getting off, stroking his dick as I watched him, it flitters through my head anyway.
Fuck it, tonight I’m not finishing the workout. I’m taking a shower and going back to the room to pass out.
I dig out my change of clothes, shower stuff, and a towel from my gym bag and find a shower stall with a curtain. Most of the showers are communal but to the sides there are a few that give you some privacy.
I pull the curtain shut and make sure it doesn’t gap open before pulling my clothes off and turning the water on. It’s cold as fuck but I don’t really have any other option. No one needs to see the damage to my skin. I don’t want to field questions about it or see the pity in people’s eyes.
The water doesn’t get hot enough for my liking, but maybe that’s my punishment for not finishing my workout. The tepid water washes down my skin, setting off goosebumps and making my muscles even more tense. The most recent wound stings as the water mixes with sweat.
I hate my skin. The scars that mar my body. Proof of my fuck-ups and the twisted mind of my father. There’s never a time I can just pull my shirt off. I’m always aware of the way my shirts fit, preferring to tuck them in most of the time to keep my body covered.
I scrub my body clean and dry off more aggressively than necessary, but I’m fucking irritated. At myself. At my life. At the circumstances of my existence.
As I make my way out of the gym after getting dressed, I pull my phone from my bag and send my sister a message.
Preston: Hey brat, how’s school?
Lily: Boring. I hate this place.
Preston: I know but it’s your last year. Did you really want to transfer to a new school your senior year?
Lily: You moved.
Not because I wanted to.
I don’t have a comeback for her so I don’t respond. Trust me, I didn’t want to transfer this year. My last team was good, worked hard, and won the Frozen Four last season.
Lily: I looked up your school, Darby University’s hockey team seems pretty good buy why did you leave Boston? Didn’t they give you a contract first?
I grit my teeth as I push my way through the people standing outside the dorms.
“Hey, you’re the new hockey player, right?” a feminine voice calls from behind me a second before a hand lands on my arm. Quickly, I spin around and shrug her off. It makes my skin crawl to be touched.
“Yeah, I guess.” I huff at her, completely uninterested. The petite girl with blue hair and black eyeliner drags her eyes over my body and bites her lip. It’s almost enough to make me smile. Sorry, chick, I’m not interested.
“I like hockey players.” Her tone is seductive but does nothing for me.
“Do they like you?” The words are out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to filter them. The sultry bedroom eyes turn angry and offended. Not really what I meant, but it works. I’m betting she won’t be stopping me to talk again.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” She pops a hand on her hip, glaring at me.
“I don’t have time for this. You like hockey players, jocks, whatever. Good for you.” I turn away from her and enter the dorm building, opting for the stairs to the third floor instead of the elevator since I didn’t finish my workout.
The door to my dorm room opens, Jeremy steps out with Paul and Brendon and they freeze when they see me.
In jeans and hoodies, they look like they’re going out somewhere.
“Lay off the carbs tonight.” I step past them and enter the room, closing the door, but not before one of them mutters “pompous jackass” under their breath.
I drop my gym bag on the floor and lay down. I’ll deal with my dirty clothes later. Right now, all I want is sleep. Curling up on my side, I press my back against the wall and close my eyes, images of Jeremy Albrooke cumming running on repeat in my mind’s eye.
