21– Kayden

The seat beneath me hummed with the steady vibration of the engine, but the only thing I could feel was the blinding, white-hot pain radiating from the left side of my torso.

Every shallow breath I dragged into my lungs felt like an ice pick driving into my lungs.

I stared at my reflection in the rear view mirror.

My face was bruised, blood gathering in my left eye.

My chin trembled as I stared at the mess I was. A tear slipped down my cheek, I eased it away, wincing because every movement just sent a flood of pain through me.

“Are you okay?” The driver’s voice broke through the suffocating silence, his eyes anxious in the rearview mirror.

“Mm…” I hummed. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” I agreed. “But what can I do?”

“You can stop tolerating this,” the driver said, his voice firm. “You can put an end to it if you want.”

“Why should I? He’s my father.”

“No father should do that to his son.”

“It’s not like he does it all the time,” I muttered, trying to find any excuse to hold on to. “It’s a once in a while occurrence. I’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”

The driver was silent for a moment, just staring at me like I had suddenly grown two heads. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Mr. Alvarez,” he spoke again. “With all due respect, look at the state he put you in. You have a game tomorrow. How in the hell are you supposed to play when you can’t even stand straight.”

I stifled a sniffle, looking out the window.

There was nothing I could say.

No one would be able to understand how I felt. 

At the end of the day, Kane was my father. I couldn’t bear the thought of throwing him behind bars over something as trivial as this.

“Maybe we should divert to the emergency clinic downtown.”

“No,” I choked out, the word costing me a sharp jolt of pain that made my vision blur. I gripped the armrest until my knuckles cracked. “Just take me to the airfield.”

“But the team doctor isn't at the hangar yet. If you have a fractured bone, boarding a pressurized cabin—”

“I said no!” I growled, my voice cracking under the strain. “I am not going to a hospital. I am going to Montreal. If you don’t want to drive this car to the airfield, get out and let me do it.”

“Kayden—”

“Just please… stop talking.” My chin trembled as tears melted into my cheeks. “This is my career. This is all I know. And my coach will be disappointed if he finds me in this state just before a game.”

“I’m sorry…” The driver swallowed hard, his posture stiffening as he cut a tense glance at the mirror before stepping harder on the gas. 

I leaned my head back against the headrest, my chest heaving erratically. The pain was a welcome distraction. It was nothing compared to the crushing wave of shame drowning my mind.

She saw.

The thought burned through my brain, and it was even more painful than any hit I took from my father.

Gabrielle had seen everything. 

She saw me being reduced to a bleeding boy begging on his knees. 

I spent six months playing the cocky, untouchable role just to get her to notice me, and in a moment, she had seen the weakest, most pathetic version of who I really was.

She had seen the monster I ran from. 

She had seen me get broken.

The humiliation made me feel sick to my stomach. 

I couldn’t bear the thought of the pity in her eyes. I didn’t want her sympathy. 

I ran away from there to get her away from me, to save whatever tiny shred of dignity I had left, but the mental image of her kneeling over me was a scar that wouldn't heal.

With shaking fingers, I frantically rummaged through the front pocket of my gear bag until I finally fished out a pair of thick, dark shades. 

I jammed them over my eyes, shielding the rapidly bruising skin around my cheekbone from the light. Then, I grabbed the fabric of my gray hoodie, pulling it over my head. I yanked the drawstrings down, tighter and tighter, until the fabric bunched over my nose.

I buried myself deep into the shadow of the hood, hiding from the world. 

Montreal was the only thing left. The ice was the only place where I had any control, where nobody could touch me, and where Kane couldn't reach me. 

I was going to play even if it killed me.

The moment we reached the field and I stepped out, my coach’s eyes cut to me.

“What’s with the dressing, Alvarez?!” he called out from where he was standing.

“Nothing, coach. Just trying out something new.”

“No lying, Alvarez!”

How laughable.

“I have a cold,” I said.

He started towards me, stopping only a few paces away. “Did you get tested?”

I shook my head.

“You’re clutching your sides,” he observed.

I swallowed hard. “It hurts to breathe.”

“Are you sure it’s a cold?” He stepped forward:

I took a subtle step back. “Yes, coach.”

“Are you certain you can play in this state? It’s best you sit this one out and recover.”

I was silent for a moment. Even hearing the suggestion felt like I was being hit all over again.

I gritted my teeth and dropped my hand from my ribs, shoving it into my pocket. Then I forced myself to stand straight.

“It’s just a cold, coach. I can handle myself.”

His dissecting gaze traveled over my frame slowly. “Are you sure, Alvarez?”

I exhaled. “Why don’t we get to Montreal and let me show you.”