AXEL'S POV
Chloe was tucked under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder like they were the lead roles in some goddamn rom-com. She caught my eye for a split second and looked away, leaning in to whisper something to Liam that made him laugh.
The sound didn't reach me through the glass, but the sight of his teeth, white and mocking did.
"Eyes forward, Axel!" Coach Gregory barked from the bench, his face already a shade of purple that didn't bode well for his blood pressure. "They aren't playing the game. You are. Get your head out of your ass! We are not going to lose this game to the rebels"
"Yeah, Coach," I muttered, skating to the blue line.
The puck dropped, and the world narrowed down to the black disc and the sound of heavy breathing.
For the first ten minutes, I was a machine. I laid a hit on a Rebels winger that sent him sprawling into the boards, the sound of the impact echoing like a gunshot. It felt good. It felt like I was finally hitting the people I actually wanted to hurt.
But then, the shifts changed.
The Rebels' top line came over the boards. Michael Rossi led the charge, his skating so fluid it looked like he wasn't even trying.
He was a menace. He didn't just play hockey; he played people. He knew exactly how to position his body to draw a foul, how to chirp just low enough that the refs didn't hear, but the players did.
I moved to close the gap on him as he crossed into our zone.
"Still looking, Thorne?" Michael said as we collided near the face-off circle. Our shoulders slammed together, pads grinding with a screech of plastic on plastic.
"She looks happy. Liam's always been better with his hands than you, hasn't he?"
I shoved him, my glove smashing into his chest. "Shut your mouth, Rossi."
"Truth hurts," he chuckled, easily pivoting away from my hit. He danced around me, his stick-handling so fast it was a blur.
"Maybe if you weren't so stiff, they wouldn't have replaced you so fast. You're like a statue out here. Pretty to look at, but boring as hell."
He zipped a pass across the ice, setting up a play that almost resulted in a goal if
Miller hadn't stood on his head to make the save.
The whistle blew. I was shaking. Not from the cold, but from the sheer, unadulterated need to wrap my stick around Rossi's neck.
I skated back to the bench, my chest heaving. I looked up at the stands again.
Liam was pointing at me, saying something to Chloe, and then he mimed a 'crying' motion with his hands.
My ex best friend, someone I treated as a brother. What pisses me off is the fact that Rossi kept advising me that he wasn't a good friend but I didn't listen because he was my rival, he still is my rival though.
The betrayal felt like a physical weight, pulling me under. Every time I looked at them, I saw the year I'd wasted with her. I saw the nights I'd spent helping Liam pass his finals. I saw two people who didn't give a damn that they'd gutted me.
"Hey," a voice said.
I looked up. Rossi was standing at the edge of his bench, only a few feet away from ours.
He was squirting water into his mouth, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked at me, then followed my gaze to the stands.
He saw them. He saw the mocking wave Liam gave me.
Rossi turned back to me, his expression shifting from smug to something sharper. Something calculating.
"You're letting them win, Golden Boy," Michael said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the taunting edge for a second. "You look pathetic. Do you want me to give you a pacifier?"
"I don't need your commentary," I snapped, gripping the bench railing so hard the wood groaned.
"You need something," Michael replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. "Because right now? You're a joke. And honestly? I expected better from my favorite rival."
He winked, actually winked before turning back to his coach.
The second period was a blur of high-intensity rage. We were winning, but I wasn't feeling the victory. Every goal we scored felt like a temporary bandage on a gaping wound.
By the time the third period was winding down, we were up 4-1. The game was ours. The crowd was screaming. But as the final buzzer rang out, the victory tasted like ash.
I stood there on the ice, my lungs burning, watching the Rebels file off.
Michael didn't go to the tunnel. He skated straight toward me.
He had that look in his eye again. The one that said he was about to ruin my day just because he could.
"Nice win, Thorne," he said, skating circles around me as I stood like a pillar of salt.
"Too bad nobody cares. Look at them."
He gestured with his stick toward the third row.
Liam and Chloe weren't looking at the scoreboard. They were making out. Deeply. In front of everyone. It was a performance. It was a "fuck you" directed straight at my Jersey number.
"They're mocking you, Axel. Are you just gonna accept defeat? Everyone is already talking about how sad and pathetic you look." Michael whispered, drifting closer until our helmets were almost touching.
The heat coming off him was intense, a stark contrast to the ice beneath us.
"Everyone is watching you watch them. You look like a kicked puppy."
"I'll kill him," I rasped, my hand twitching toward my stick.
"No, you won't. You'll go home and sulk,"
Michael taunted, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a split second before snapping back to mine. "Unless you want to give them something else to talk about."