Break The Ice

My fingers dug into the edge of the table, knuckles white, as I leaned in. "All I ask is for a chance to prove myself, and you won’t fucking let me!" "Mind your language, Myles Astor," Coach Daniel snapped, his gaze flicking up briefly. The words were cold, indifferent. Like I was some kid throwing a tantrum. Outside the office, cheers roared from the party in full swing. Each burst of laughter and clinking glass grated against me, a reminder that while my life was falling apart, everyone else was having the time of theirs. They were celebrating *him*—Tristan Medici, the golden boy with the golden ticket, stepping right into my spot, *my fucking spot*, on the team. My chest tightened. I wasn’t breathing. "Please." My voice cracked, more fragile than I wanted it to be. I hated myself for it. I took a step closer to his desk, my hand resting on the edge for support. "At least let me play the next match." The next match meant everything. NHL scouts would be there, watching, eval

“Yes, Myles, what’s the answer?”I blinked, yanked out of my trance by the teacher’s voice. The whole class turned toward me, eyes wide, some barely stifling laughter. I stood up, trying to shake the fog from my mind.“Sir… could you repeat the question?”“Repeat the question?” He raised an eyebrow. “Caught you smiling. Figured you knew the answer.”If only class made me smile that much. But no, my smile was all because of the little chat I had with Coach Daniel earlier."I had a nap and realized I wasn’t fair to you. There’s a way to get you back on the team, but it’ll cost you your dignity."That “dignity” translated into being the water boy during training, just so I could hold on to a sliver of a chance of rejoining the team. It was humiliating, but at least it was something.“Sir, I have no idea.”“The answer is ‘cell,’” a soft voice offered from behind. “The smallest unit of life.”Natalie. My brows furrowed as I turned to see her offering a small, sympathetic smile. I nodded in

**TRISTAN** My phone buzzed. One new message. *"You're sick… Use that money to get your head checked."* And right below it: *"This person is not contactable."* I pinched the bridge of my nose, holding back a chuckle as the coach stood in front of me. There was something about the brown-haired rascal that amused me—something I hadn’t quite figured out yet. Maybe it was the way he overflowed with emotion. *"You hate emotions."* Maybe. But they suited him—better than those coffee-brown eyes or the slight athletic physique hidden beneath oversized hoodies. *"He hates you."* Why should I care? At first, all I felt was guilt. The morning after, when I placed a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, I realized—his first time. And I hadn't even noticed. It was no coincidence he was the first I laid my eyes on when I walked into the school that evening. The brunette surrounded by friends and staring at the wall. Habits died hard, so once again, like the life I kept a secret from e

Was I really doing this? I stared at the entrance wide-eyed, hoping it stayed this quiet, stayed this still while I deciphered my thoughts. That was too much to ask. "Hey!" Diego yelled from where he was pressed to his stomach by the men on top of him. "That's you fucking daydreaming again?" One of the men palmed him hard against the back of his head. "Can you just shut the fuck up for once in your life?" Their words were like echoes, shadows. Ones I wished would just cease existing. The old man slowly limped up to me while I struggled with my thoughts, and I wasn’t aware until he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Myles, I hate to tell you this, but stalling won’t help you people." "I'm serious," I insisted, then swallowed when he raised a brow at me. "Wait here," I announced, sprinting back into the room. Hurling the bed up was quick, but at the first sight of the money, I froze again, desperately dragging my hands through my hair. One feel of that money, and I'd have a le

**MYLES**I can hear his phone buzzing continuously and the crinkle of a wrapper, but I don’t want to look, even as I feel him position himself behind me. I’m scared he’ll see what he hears, and that smug smile will be back. But now, I’m ready for whatever comes, determined to withhold from him the satisfaction of tearing me apart.His hands run down my back, and I swallow, shutting my eyes but still feeling my walls shake. Then he presses against me, making sure I feel everything as he pushes in. My body stiffens, and he pauses as if giving me time to adjust. My cheeks burn—I’d feel better about myself if he’d just ram it in, so I could finally go home.“I’m going in,” he says. It’s not a question; it’s a declaration. I grip the sheets, and a few seconds later, he continues to slide in, his touch firm on my back.My toes curl, my lids shoot open, and my vision blurs. My knuckles go white as I wait for him to be fully in, but the bastard… by the time he’s fully inside, I feel weighted