27– Kayden

What am I doing here?

What am I doing here?

What am I doing here?

The voice in my head buzzed and buzzed and fucking buzzed.

My life was a mess.

The only thing I had was money, but even that didn’t matter.

I was aching—literally and metaphorically.

Why was I moving on this ice?

Who was I enduring this pain for?

My mother?

She was long dead. I was sure her carcass wouldn’t care about what I did with my life.

My father and the family he abandoned me for?

Just so he could get more money from me.

Gabrielle?

Perhaps.

She said she loved watching me on the ice.

But in the same breath, she said she was ashamed of me.

What was it about me that caused her to be ashamed?

Was it my physical appearance?

Was it my nonchalance?

Was it the crazy things the tabloids wrote about me on a daily basis?

Perhaps it was because I inherited my mother’s broken heart.

But that wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t my fault that I was born with a broken heart and a mind that often drove me to the edge.

It wasn’t my fault.

And yet—

A body barreled into me.

I had forgotten that I was on the ice for a moment, just lost in my stupid mind.

I tried to catch myself, but my skates gave out and I hit the ground.

Pain shot through my ribs so violently that my vision blurred. For half a second, I lay there, staring at the ceiling of the arena, trying to drag air into my lungs.

But instead of staying down and trying to hold myself together, I lunged toward my opponent who had barreled into me, taking him down with me.

And the next thing?

It was red.

Red was all I saw.

My fist kept moving and the chaos kept rising around me until I was practically dragged off like an untamed beast.

And then, when it all came back to me, I was sitting on a bench in the locker room with my coach standing over me and my teammates looming around, looking tense.

Why were they all here?

Did the game end already?

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Alvarez!”

“I’m looking, Coach,” I said.

I wasn’t looking at him.

My eyes were trained on the small space near the door where I could see Gabrielle’s leg.

Why was she there?

Why did she have to be around whenever I was in an embarrassing situation?

“Your actions today cost us a win!” My coach roared. “We were two points ahead, Alvarez, but you ruined our chances for us!”

“He purposely barreled into me.”

“Before that, Alvarez, you were playing a selfish game on that rink today!” My coach stepped closer. “You didn’t carry your teammates along. You made it seem like it was a Kayden Alvarez game, and you were fouled multiple times! Where was your head?”

I finally looked at him. “My head was on the game.”

“Bullshit!” The word cracked through the room. “Your head was everywhere except the game. You were skating like you had something to prove to everyone in that arena.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I did.”

His nostrils flared.“And that is exactly the fucking problem.”

I leaned back against the bench. My ribs protested immediately. I ignored them.

Coach’s eyes dropped briefly to the way I was holding my side before coming back to my face.

“Your ribs are still hurting?” he asked. 

“I’m fine,” I breathed. 

“Don’t lie to me, Alvarez. You can barely sit up without wincing.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You told me it was a cold, but look at your bloody eye, Alvarez. Did you get into a fight?” he asked.

I instinctively reached up, my fingers brushing beneath my left eye. “No, coach.”

“So what’s wrong with your eye?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s a clot,” I answered. 

“A clot?” he repeated, chuckling incredulously. “Do you know how someone can get a clot like that? When they’re hit in the eye. So I’ll ask again: did you get into a fight, Kayden Alvarez?”

I didn’t offer him a response. It was out in the open and there was no need to continue lying about it. But I wasn’t willing to admit it.

Since he was so smart, he could draw a conclusion on his own. I couldn’t care less.

Coach slapped a hand over his face, his breath coming in sharp heaves. He dragged the hand across his face and into his hair, fisting his strands hard. 

“What is my one rule during a season, Alvarez?” he asked, his voice thick.

“No fighting.”

“No fighting,” he echoed. “And yet, here you are, a walking proof that you got yourself into a fight that left you in a terrible physical condition.”

The locker room went unnaturally quiet.

I inhaled a long, steadying breath. “I did not get into a fight, coach.”

“Then what the fuck am I looking at?!”

I didn’t say anything. 

He stepped closer, his voice lowering in disbelief. “Did you see a doctor?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“And what did the doctor say?”

“That I’d live.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

I shrugged again.

Coach dragged a hand down his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“And your ribs?” he asked, his care bleeding over the anger he must’ve been feeling. “Is the pain as a result of whatever you got yourself into?”

I nodded.

“Anything broken?”

“No,” I responded.

“Who cleared you to play?”

I didn’t answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Alvarez—”

“I wasn’t cleared.”