Falling For My Captain...

Elliot's POV

"You really don't have to carry that tape-wrapped bag through the main entrance, Elliot," Austin said, jogging to catch up with me near the rink doors. "The guys inside are already looking for any reason to single you out. Giving them secondhand gear to laugh at before you even step on the ice isn't going to help."

"Let them look," I said, shifting the strap across my shoulder. "My gear works fine. It got me a scholarship here, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but a scholarship at Westbridge Academy just means you have a target on your back," Austin sighed, pushing the double doors open. "These guys have grown up in private camps with personal coaches. They look at guys like us—guys on financial aid—like we're taking up space that belongs to their friends."

"I'm not here to make friends with them," I said, looking out toward the glass. "I'm here to play."

"Just watch your back out there. Especially around the senior guys," Austin warned, heading toward his locker. "They don't like getting showed up."

I pulled my skates tight, double-knotting the frayed laces before stepping out onto the ice. The chill hit my face instantly, but the cold was the only thing that felt familiar. Around me, the rest of the team glided in smooth, effortless circles, their custom equipment shiny and brand new.

"Hey! Look what the ice dragged in!"

I turned around as Nathaniel Reed slid to a stop right in front of me, spraying ice shavings over my blades. He smirked, tapping the tip of his stick against my worn toe cap.

"Where did you dig those up, Hayes? A garage sale in the cheap part of town?" Nathaniel sneered, loud enough for three other players nearby to hear. "I didn't know Westbridge was accepting open-skate walk-ons now."

"They're skates, Reed," I said, keeping my voice flat. "They hold up on the ice just fine."

"We'll see about that when we start speed drills," Nathaniel chuckled, flipping a puck from his stick to his glove. "Try not to lose a blade out there. It'd be embarrassing to clean you off the boards."

"Focus on your own drill, Reed," I replied, turning my back on him to skate toward the blue line.

"Line up for speed passes!" the whistle blew from the bench area.

We moved into two lines. I took my place behind Austin, checking my stance. Nathaniel lined up right beside me in the outer lane. When the horn blew for our turn, I dug my blades deep into the ice, exploding forward with everything I had.

I caught the initial pass cleanly, keeping my head up as I crossed the center line. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nathaniel angling his path straight toward mine instead of staying in his lane. He reached out with his stick, aiming low to catch the heel of my left skate as I pushed into a turn.

I felt the sudden hook against my ankle, my body leaning forward into a fast tilt. But instead of crashing face-first onto the hard ice, I snapped my right leg out, catching my edge just in time. The sharp scraping noise echoed off the high ceiling as I recovered my balance, kept control of the puck, and accelerated straight toward the goal.

The starting goalie shifted to cover the left post, expecting a pass or a wide shot. I didn't slow down. I fake-shot right, forced him to drop his pads, and lifted the puck neatly over his glove into the top right corner of the net.

The puck hit the back mesh with a loud snap.

I pulled up near the boards, breathing hard, a quick surge of pride running through my chest. I turned around, expecting the drill to reset.

Instead, a sharp, long whistle blasted through the arena.

Everything on the ice came to a complete halt. Nobody moved. Nobody passed.

Cruz Blackwood dropped his clipboard near the bench and stepped onto the ice. He didn't look at the net where the puck was still rolling. He didn't look at Nathaniel, who was standing near the red line trying to act natural.

Cruz glided straight toward me, his stance calm, controlled, and sharp. The air around the rink felt like it dropped ten degrees as he stopped inches away from me. His blue-gray eyes locked onto mine, completely empty of any praise.

"Who told you to take that shot?" Cruz asked. His tone was low, quiet, and completely cold.

I stared back at him, wiping sweat from my forehead. "The drill was a speed pass to an open shot, Captain."

"The drill was a controlled entry," Cruz corrected instantly, stepping closer until he towered right over me. "You lost control of your lane. You skated out of formation. You played like an untrained street racer trying to impress a crowd that doesn't care."

"I got tripped," I said, holding his stare. "I kept my balance, I kept the puck, and I scored."

"You got lucky," Cruz replied without blinking. "And in my arena, reckless luck gets people hurt. You don't have discipline, Hayes. You skate wildly, you ignore spacing, and you think speed makes up for bad form. You're a liability to this squad."

The entire team was silent, watching us from the circle. I could feel the heat rising in my face, the sting of his judgment burning deep, but I refused to drop my eyes or look away.

"My form got the puck into the net," I said, my voice steady, stepping right back into his space. "Maybe if your defense spent less time trying to trip teammates and more time covering the gap, I wouldn't have had a clear line to score. Focus on your own game, Cruz."

A quiet gasp came from someone near the bench. Nobody spoke to Cruz Blackwood like that.

Cruz didn't raise his voice. He didn't lose his temper. He just looked down at my worn jersey, at the faded Westbridge logo stitched on the chest, and stepped even closer.

"You don't tell me what to focus on," Cruz whispered, his voice cutting through the silence like ice. "You think having talent means you belong here? You haven't earned anything yet."

He leaned in slightly, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"You're benched for tomorrow's scrimmage, Hayes. Learn your place.”