CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

TYLER 

I woke up to beeping.

The ceiling was white. Everything smelled like alcohol and plastic. My ribs ached. My mouth was dry. My head throbbed like someone had boxed my ears from the inside out.

I tried to move. Bad idea.

“Hey, hey,” a soft voice said.

I blinked. Slowly.

My mom.

She was sitting beside the bed, a paper fan in one hand, looking at me like she’d aged ten years overnight.

“You’re awake,” she whispered, standing quickly. “Thank God.”

“Ma,” I croaked.

“Don’t move. Here. Water.”

She reached for the plastic cup on the tray and held the straw to my lips. I drank. Cold water hit my throat, and it felt like heaven.

“What happened?” I murmured.

“You tell me,” she said gently. “They said a motorcycle skidded off Eastridge. You were alone.”

“I just… needed to clear my head.”

“By speeding on wet roads?”

I didn’t answer.

Her hand brushed my hair back, the way she used to when I had nightmares as a kid.

“You scared me,” she said. “You really scared me, anak.”

“I’m okay,” I mumbled.

“You could’ve—” Her voice cracked. “God, Tyler. You could’ve died.”

Before I could reply, the door slammed open.

My father.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked to the bed, his shoes clicking sharp against the tile.

He had a folded newspaper in one hand.

My stomach dropped.

“I’m fine, Pa,” I said quickly.

He ignored that.

He shoved the paper in my face.

“You call this nothing?” he snapped.

I stared at the photo.

It was from the club.

Mason and I—nose to nose. His hand on my hip. My hand grabbing his shirt.

It looked like a kiss.

I swallowed.

“It’s not—”

“It’s all over T*****r, Tyler. Your teammates have seen it. My coworkers have seen it. Your cousins have seen it.”

“Manuel,” my mom said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

He shook her off.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed.

“It was just an argument,” I said. “Nothing happened.”

“Do I look stupid to you?”

“It wasn’t—”

“Why were you even near that boy?” he demanded. “You’re rivals on ice, don't you remember? Leave the family gathering to us adults.”

I clenched my jaw. “We argued. That’s it.”

“His hand was on you.”

I looked away.

“Look at me, Tyler.”

I didn’t.

“You think I’m blind? You think I don’t know what this looks like?”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Pa!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” I snapped.

His face turned red.

My mom stepped in quickly. “Manuel, calm down. He just woke up. You can’t—”

“He’s embarrassing us!” my dad shouted. “He already has a brother we don’t talk about. Now him?”

I froze.

My mother’s eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t bring Gabriel into this.”

“This family has values, Cora,” he said. “That picture spits on every one of them.”

“I said it was nothing,” I hissed, trying to sit up.

Pain shot through my side. I winced.

“You’re not going anywhere,” my father said coldly. “We’ll handle this. Delete whatever you need to. Make a statement. Say it was edited. A prank. Whatever.”

I stared at him.

“You want me to lie?”

“You want the world thinking you’re—”

“I don’t care what the world thinks,” I snapped. “It’s none of your business.”

“It’s all of my business.”

“Why?” I shouted. “Because I’m your last ‘normal’ son? Is that it? Because Gabriel came out and you couldn’t deal, so now I have to carry all your pride on my back?”

The room went quiet.

Dead quiet.

My mom’s hand flew to her mouth.

My father stared at me.

“You think I don’t know?” I whispered. “You think I don’t feel the pressure every damn day? To be perfect. To be what you want. Not who I am?”

He didn’t move.

I scoffed.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

There was a knock.

The nurse peeked in.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “Coach Dawson’s on the phone. He’s asking if Tyler’s awake.”

My father turned to her. “Tell him my son is not taking calls.”

“No,” I said, cutting in. “I want to talk to him.”

The nurse looked between us, then nodded and left.

“You’re not handling this right,” my father said quietly.

“No,” I said. “I’m handling me.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know I can’t live in your shadow forever.”

“You can’t ruin your life over some... phase.”

I laughed bitterly.

“It’s always a phase with you. Always an embarrassment. Always about what people will think.”

My mother’s voice cut through the tension.

“You both need to stop,” she said, firm now. “He’s not okay. He just got out of a crash. Can you hear yourselves?”

Neither of us spoke.

The nurse came back with a phone. She handed it to me.

“Line one. It’s your coach.”

I took it with shaky fingers.

“Hello?”

“Reyes,” Coach Dawson said. “Jesus. I just saw the news. Are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Little banged up.”

“We’re flying out tomorrow. Team’s already buzzing. Just wanted to check in.”

“Flying out?”

“Didn’t your captain tell you?” he asked. “Joint retreat with Silverhollow’s boys. League’s PR event. Both national teams. Mason Grant’s crew included.”

My stomach dropped.

“Oh.”

“You in?”

I glanced at my dad, who was now standing with arms folded, staring at the wall like he wished he could throw a chair through it.

My mother gave me the smallest nod.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Good. You need the break. And keep your head down, yeah? Media’s going nuts.”

“Yeah. Got it.”

I hung up.

Then looked at the nurse.

“I want to be discharged.”

She blinked. “Already?”

“I’m fine.”

“You need to be monitored for—”

“I said I’m fine.”

My mom sighed. “Tyler, please—”

“I’m not staying here.”

The nurse nodded, looking hesitant. “I’ll get the paperwork.”

My father turned to leave.

“I hope you think this through,” he said quietly. “You still have a future. Don’t ruin it chasing things that don’t matter.”

He walked out without waiting for an answer.

My mom leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“You don’t have to explain anything to anyone,” she whispered. “Not even us. Just… please be careful.”

“I’m trying,” I whispered back.

She squeezed my hand.

“I love you. Always.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.

But the storm was still inside me.

The second I stepped into my apartment, I headed straight for my room.

Clothes.

Gear.

Toiletries.

No thinking. Just packing.

I didn’t want time to think. I didn’t want time to sit on my bed and remember Mason’s breath on my neck. Or my dad’s disappointment. Or my mom’s watery eyes.

So I kept moving.

A duffel bag. Backpack. Phone charger.

I threw everything together like I’d done this a hundred times before.

By the time I zipped the last bag, I was already sweating. My ribs still ached, but I ignored it.

Didn’t even bother checking T*****r again. The damage was done. The photo was out. The assumptions were made.

Let them talk.

I locked the door behind me and walked to the curb, where a black van was already waiting.

Big, tinted. Official.

My driver was standing beside it, checking a list on a clipboard.

“Name?” he asked.

“Tyler Reyes.”

He nodded and opened the door. “You’re early. Meeting point’s twenty out.”

“I don’t mind.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The meeting point was some fancy training facility just outside the city.

When we pulled in, I saw the Storm team’s bus parked already.

Of course they were here first.

I stepped out into the parking lot and adjusted the strap on my bag. My side still hurt, but I kept my face neutral.

Deep breath.

Inside, the lobby smelled like coffee and fresh paint. Two long tables were set up at the front, with both coaching teams standing around holding tablets and clipboards.

Coach Dawson spotted me first.

“Reyes!”

I walked over.

“You sure you’re good to go?” he asked. “No soreness?”

“I’m good.”

“You look pale.”

“I always look pale.”

He grunted. “Fair enough.”

Coach Taylor from Silverhollow walked over and clapped my shoulder.

“You’re early.”

“Just excited,” I muttered.

“Mhm. Or avoiding questions.”

He smirked like he already knew the answer.

“Anyway,” Dawson continued, “this month’s retreat is half PR, half bonding. League’s making us post daily, train together, do friendly matches. Nothing too serious. Glorified vacation.”

I nodded.

“There’ll be team-building crap, beach games, hikes, co-op workouts, whatever. Just don’t kill each other. And try not to throw punches at the press.”

“Got it.”

“Oh,” Coach Taylor added, “and don’t stress about the photo. PR team’s spinning it as friendly banter. Rivalry drama. All smoke.”

“Right,” I said flatly.

“Seats were assigned by name,” Dawson said, handing me a card. “You’re in car five.”

He pointed out back, where several large black SUVs were parked in a row.

“Your stuff’s already loaded.”

I nodded and turned.

“Tyler,” Coach Taylor called before I left.

“Yeah?”

He lowered his voice. “Just remember—no one’s really watching until they think you’re hiding something.”

I met his gaze, then nodded again.

Car five was sleek and shiny, black leather seats, tinted windows. There was already music playing inside — low hip-hop, bass humming.

I slid in and took the window seat.

The AC was cold. My hands were sweating.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled past notifications. Every app still buzzing with that damn picture. I tossed it into my hoodie pocket.

The door opened again.

“Grant, Mason,” a staff voice called from outside.

Footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Then a voice — smooth, cocky, and familiar:

“Hey, pretty boy.”

I didn’t turn.

Mason climbed in beside me, his cologne hitting me like a punch to the face — woodsy, expensive, annoyingly good.

He sat back, draped one arm across the seat like he owned the place.

I finally looked at him.

“What do you want?”

He smiled, slow and lazy.

“To make this month… unforgettable.”

The ride was two hours of silence.

Well… my silence.

Mason hummed the whole time. Tapped his fingers against the window. Changed the music. Stretched.

He’d look at me every ten minutes like he was waiting for me to snap.

I didn’t.

I kept my eyes forward and my headphones in, even though I wasn’t playing anything.

When we hit the countryside, I finally spoke.

“Why’d you ask to sit next to me?”

“Because watching you squirm is my favorite sport,” Mason said, grinning. “Hockey’s just a side gig.”

I rolled my eyes and turned away.

A few minutes later, he added, “Also, I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead. That photo? Truck? Scared the hell out of me.”

I stiffened.

He leaned a little closer. “You good, Reyes?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“Mind your business.”

“You are my business. We’re friends.”

I looked at him sharply. “Neighbors, not the same thing.”

“I’m kidding,” he smirked. “Relax.”

I cursed under my breath.

When we finally pulled into the retreat lodge, the place looked like something out of a luxury hiking ad.

Wood and glass. Massive cabins. Pine trees everywhere. A freaking lake out back.

The staff handed everyone juice like we were on a reality show.

“Welcome to North Pine Retreat,” one of the managers chirped. “The next month will be about healing rivalry through unity!”

“God,” I muttered. “Shoot me.”

“I’m praying for a bear,” Mason said, sipping his drink.

Inside the main lodge, we dumped our bags by the wall. The whole space was warm, rustic, and annoyingly beautiful.

Players from both teams gathered around as Coach Dawson cleared his throat.

“Listen up,” he said. “Room assignments were randomized. No swaps. No complaints. You’ll survive a month.”

“Do we get to pick beds at least?” someone asked.

“Sure,” Coach said. “Fight for it. I don’t care.”

Avery from the Storm side laughed. “God, this is gonna be a disaster.”

One of the staff started reading out names.

“Room 1: Carter and Eli.”

“Room 2: Damien and Wes.”

“Room 5: Caleb and Logan.”

“Room 11: Josh and Felix.”

People groaned, cheered, shoved each other.

Then—

“Room 24… Reyes and Grant.”

Silence.

Heads turned.

I blinked.

Mason just whistled low and leaned toward me.

“Guess the universe ships us.”