Chapter 2: Benched

Elliot's POV

The wooden bench was freezing under my legs, but the sting inside my chest burned far worse.

I sat with my skates resting on the edge of the rubber mats, watching the main squad skate back and forth across the main rink. My stick leaned against my knee, useless. Every single guy out there had top-tier equipment and years of elite training. I had a pair of second-hand skates with worn laces and a scholarship that felt thinner than paper.

"Keep the speed up on the left wing!" Coach Frederick shouted from near the glass. He leaned against the board, blowing his whistle once before stepping back to let Cruz direct the drill. "Cruz, take over the transition play!"

Cruz didn't need to shout to control the ice. He moved with total precision, cutting through the neutral zone like he owned every inch of the rink. Every pass he made was clean, fast, and completely dead-on.

"Austin, swing wider!" Cruz called out, his sharp voice ringing over the noise of blades grinding against ice. "Nathaniel, fall back and lock the defensive gap! Stop giving them room to cross!"

Even while directing the entire play, Cruz's gaze shifted toward the bench every time he rounded the far corner. His cold, blue eyes locked onto me for a quick second before darting back to the play. He was keeping me sitting down, proving to everyone in the building that my place was on the sidelines.

"Hey, Hayes," Nathaniel yelled out as he coasted past the bench, wiping sweat from his forehead with his glove. "How's the view from down there? Comfortable?"

"Watch your lane, Reed," I replied, my hands tightening around my stick. "You're leaving the inner seam wide open."

"Mind your own business, bench boy," Nathaniel scoffed, turning back toward the play.

I watched Nathaniel drop into position, but his footwork was completely off. Every time the opposing line pushed forward, Nathaniel drifted too far to the left, trying to guard a passing route that wasn't even there. He was leaving the right wing wide open, completely blind to the overlap.

"Nathaniel! Shift right!" I shouted across the ice, stepping right up to the edge of the boards. "You're overcommitted! If they drop the puck behind you, you're giving them a clean break on the goalie!"

The play came to a screeching halt.

Cruz blew his whistle, three short, sharp blasts that cut through the entire arena. Every player froze in place.

"Who opened their mouth on the bench?" Cruz asked, gliding straight toward the boards where I stood. His tone was dangerously quiet, but every person on the ice heard him.

"I did," I said, meeting his stare without backing away.

Coach Vale stepped closer, looking from Cruz to me with a slight frown. "Elliot, what are you yelling about?"

"Reed is leaning two feet too far to the outside every time they execute a transition," I said, pointing my stick toward the defensive zone. "He thinks he's covering the passing lane, but he's actually turning his body away from the puck handler. A fast wing can just chop inside, force him to turn on his weak skate, and take a direct shot right in front of the crease."

Nathaniel skated over, his face flushed red. "Coach, he's lying! I'm holding my coverage perfectly! He's just trying to cause trouble because he's stuck on the bench!"

"I'm looking at your footprint on the ice, Reed," I said calmly, looking Nathaniel straight in the eye. "You've been turning early on three straight shifts. Anyone with basic hockey sense can see the hole you're leaving."

"That's enough, Reed," Coach Vale interrupted, stepping between us. He turned to look at Cruz, then turned his focus entirely on me. "Elliot, you sound very confident about a play you're watching from the bench."

"I know how to read a defense, Coach," I answered, my heart pounding hard against my ribs. "I've had to read them from the bottom up my whole life."

Coach Vale leaned over the glass, his eyes scanning my expression carefully. "If you see the hole, prove it. Put your helmet on, Hayes. Get on the ice right now and take Nathaniel's spot for the next shift."

"Wait, Coach!" Nathaniel yelled, stepping forward. "You're going to put him in over me?"

"You had three shifts to fix your gap, Nathaniel," Coach Vale said sternly. "Now let's see if the scholarship kid actually knows what he's talking about."

A sudden surge of satisfaction rushed through me. I reached down to grab my helmet off the bench, ready to step through the door and onto the ice.

Before I could lift the helmet, a bare hand clamped tightly over the wooden shaft of my hockey stick, locking it in place.

I looked up. Cruz was standing right on the other side of the boards, leaning down close. His blue-gray eyes were locked onto mine, completely unreadable, his grip firm and steady on my stick.

"You wanted a chance, Hayes," Cruz murmured, his voice so low that only I could hear it over the echo of the rink. "So here it is."

He leaned in closer, his breath cold against the side of my face.

"Prove me wrong, or your scholarship is gone by Friday.”