ENTER SCOTT ISAAC LAWRENCE

SCOTT

I NEEDED THAT COFFEE JUST TO STAY ALIVE. My muscles were aching from the intense drill sessions, and a heavy glaze of exhaustion weighed down my eyelids. 

Still, morning practice was easily the best time to be on the ice. The air was crisp, the rink was quiet, and everything felt completely under my control.

But that peace shattered the moment I skated back toward the team bench.

The guys were crowded in a tight circle, knocking their sticks against the ice and chirping happily. I frowned, feeling a sudden prick of irritation. Who could possibly be making them this soft before the season even started?

I glided closer, my skates slicing smoothly through the ice. Then, I saw them. Those eyes.

A cold shock hit me straight in the chest, stealing the air right out of my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs as recognition washed over me, mixed with a deep, immediate wave of resentment.

It was Thomas.

She walked right up to the edge of the rink, and for a split second, my brain completely short-circuited. The tiny girl who used to help me tie my skates back when her dad trained me was gone. In her place stood a full-grown woman. She was undeniably beautiful, sharp, and confident, carrying herself with an effortless grace that made my stomach twist with a strange, confusing warmth.

But then I looked at her pristine, expensive clothes. That familiar, ugly anger flared right back up, burning hot through my veins. 

Her clothes looked perfect, like someone who had never had to struggle a single day in her life. Looking at her, all I could see was the face of the man who ruined my life and the person who helped him. The betrayal still tasted like bitter in my throat.

Before she could even finish her cheerful greeting, the spite took over. I lifted my wrist, tilted the plastic cup, and dumped the sticky, freezing iced macchiato directly over her head.

I felt a dark wave of satisfaction watching the shock freeze her face. But before she could utter a single word, Coach grabbed my arm, dragging me away from the team while screaming his head off.

By the time I got back to the hockey house later that afternoon, the anger had faded into a heavy, suffocating stress. I threw my heavy gear bag into the corner of the living room, the loud thud echoing through the empty house, and collapsed onto the couch.

"Dude, what the hell was that today?"

I looked up to see my  house mate and vice-captain, Adam Smith, walking out of the kitchen. He stopped dead in the middle of the room, his brow furrowed with genuine worry.

"It was nothing," I muttered, pressing my thumbs against my forehead. My head was throbbing.

Adam pressed forward, stepping directly into my space. "Bro, that wasn't nothing. You poured a sticky drink over the new manager's head in front of the entire team and the head coach. You looked completely unhinged out there. Everyone is talking about it."

A sudden panic spiked in my gut, making my chest tighten. I hated feeling out of control. I snapped, sitting up straight as a furious glare washed over my face. "Man, if I say it's nothing, then it's nothing! Drop it!"

Adam backed off, raising his hands in a calm, defensive gesture, though his face remained serious. "Okay, okay. Chill. I'm just reminding you to be careful, Scott. I'm worried about you. You’re currently being heavily vetted by scouts. You're practically guaranteed to get drafted into the NHL this year, but a massive mess up like this—or any reputation trouble—could easily ruin your chances. Don't throw your entire future away over some grudge."

Hearing him voice my exact fears made a cold shiver run down my spine. The thought of losing the NHL draft terrified me. It was everything I had sacrificed my life for.

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh to hide the anxiety. "And I've been on my absolute best behavior before she came here, haven't I? I know exactly what's at stake, Adam."

Adam gave me a long, silent look, sighed with disappointment, and left the room.

Left alone with my racing thoughts, I marched up to my bedroom and slammed the door shut. I needed to clear my head, but just as I threw myself into my desk chair, my laptop chimed with a loud, aggressive ringtone. It was an incoming video call from my academic advisor.

A feeling of heavy dread settled in my stomach. I groaned aloud and reluctantly clicked answer.

The professor on the screen didn't even give me a chance to say hello. She immediately started rambling, her voice sharp and urgent. "Ah, Scott. Glad you picked up. Look, you’re doing quite well overall this semester, but there is one particular sports theory course where you are seriously lacking. Your grades have officially slipped below the line." She rapped without taking a breathe. 

"I don't need a tutor, Professor," I cut in quickly, my defensive walls going right back up. I crossed my arms tightly. "I can handle it. I'll pull the grades up by the next exam."

"Well, your athletic scholarship for next semester depends entirely on your academic performance," she replied firmly, adjusting her glasses as she looked at me through the screen. 

"Since you insisted on remaining on a scholarship instead of paying out of pocket, you have to meet the strict GPA requirements. If you fail, you don't play. You should work hard for it. Luckily, we've already found a student with perfect grades who can help you out."

I rolled my eyes, leaning back in my chair with absolute exhaustion. I was trapped, and I knew it. Without the scholarship, I couldn't afford to stay at this school, and without this school, the NHL scouts would look elsewhere.

"Fine," I muttered, rubbing my temples as a dark cloud of misery settled over me. "Who is the person? Tell me where to go and I'll go meet them."

The advisor smiled, looking down at her files with an expression of relief. "Perfect. She's a new transfer student who just joined the athletic staff today. Her name is Chase Thomas."

The blood instantly drained from my face. I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat as my hands curled into tight, shaking fists. The room felt entirely too small. Of all the people in the university, it had to be her.

"Well," I whispered, a bitter feeling enveloping me. "Fuck my life."