Chapter 3: The Hard Hit

Elliot's POV

I pulled my helmet on, snapped the chin strap tight, and stepped out onto the ice. The cold hit my face like an open hand, but my hands were steady.

"Alright, Hayes! Show us what you were talking about!" Coach Vale called out, leaning over the glass barrier near center ice. "One-on-one drill! Reed on defense, Hayes on the rush! Go!"

Nathaniel Reed glided into position at the blue line. He flexed his shoulders, shifting his skates back and forth, trying to look imposing. His expensive helmet gleamed under the overhead lights.

"You really think you belong on this ice with me, scholarship trash?" Nathaniel sneered as I lined up opposite him. "You got lucky yesterday. Today, I'm taking you off your feet."

"Keep talking, Reed," I said, my voice ice-cold. "Let's see if your feet move as fast as your mouth."

The whistle blew.

I pushed off hard, my secondhand skates digging deep into the ice, building speed in three long, powerful strides. Nathaniel dropped back into his defensive stance, angling his body toward the outside just like I knew he would.

He was watching my chest, waiting for me to try a wide dodge. He was so confident in his strength that he completely left his inside foot unweighted.

I didn't try to go around him. The moment I hit the face-off circle, I dropped my shoulder, fake-cut left to force him to turn his hips, and then snapped the puck right through the exact blind spot I had pointed out minutes ago.

Nathaniel gasped, his eyes widening in complete shock as his skates tangled beneath him trying to reverse direction. He reached out wildly with his stick, but he was already out of position.

I glided right past his hip, picked up the puck clean on the other side, and cut straight for the center of the net. The goalie dropped low, trying to cover the bottom left corner, but I didn't hesitate. I flicked my wrists, lifting the puck high over his shoulder.

The puck hit the back netting with a sharp sound.

"Goal!" the junior players on the bench shouted, a few of the lower-tier scholarship guys clapping their gloves against the boards. "Nice move, Elliot! That was clean!"

I pulled up near the end boards, turning back toward center ice. Nathaniel was standing near the slot, his face red with total embarrassment.

"That was a fluke!" Nathaniel yelled, looking over at Coach Vale. "He took a cheap angle!"

"It wasn't a fluke, Reed! He exposed the exact gap he told you about!" Coach Vale called back, writing something down on his clipboard. "Run it back! Same drill! Go again!"

I skated back to the blue line, my heart pounding with a sudden rush of pride. For the first time since stepping into Westbridge Academy, I felt like I was standing on solid ground. I proved my point in front of the whole squad.

"Line up!" Cruz's voice echoed across the rink.

Cruz stood near the neutral zone, his stick resting across his knees, watching me with those piercing blue-gray eyes. He didn't look angry. He didn't look impressed either. He just looked completely unreadable, watching every single move I made.

"Ready, Reed?" I asked, resetting my stance at the line.

Nathaniel didn't answer. His lips were pressed into a tight line, his eyes dark with pure anger.

The whistle sounded.

I exploded forward again, taking the puck on my forehand. But this time, Nathaniel didn't even attempt to play the puck. The second I crossed the line, he abandoned his defensive angle entirely and charged straight at me with full momentum.

"Watch out!" Austin yelled from the bench.

I tried to pivot, but it was too late. Before I could pass or turn, Nathaniel shoved his hands into my upper chest and threw his full body weight straight into my back as I turned.

The impact slammed me face-first into the plexiglass wall.

A sharp flare of pain erupted in my mouth as my face hit the glass hard. My helmet twisted, my stick flew out of my hand, and my knees hit the hard ice with a dull crash. The world spun for a brief second as I lay on my side, taste of copper spreading across my tongue.

Laughter broke out near the home bench.

"That's how we hit at Westbridge, kid!" one of Nathaniel's friends shouted.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, my chest heaving for air. Blood trickled down my chin from a cut on my lower lip, dripping onto the white ice below. My vision cleared, and pure fire roared through my veins.

"Hey! What the hell was that?" Austin screamed, jumping onto the boards from the bench. "That was a hit from behind! That's a penalty!"

I stood up, wiping the blood off my lip with the back of my glove, and turned straight toward Nathaniel. "You can't even stop me on a clean play, so you have to throw dirty hits?"

"You want to play with the big boys, Hayes?" Nathaniel taunted, stepping right up to me and tapping his stick against my skates. "You better get used to hitting the glass. You don't belong in this league."

"Say that again," I said, stepping into his space, my fists clenching around my gloves. "Say it to my face without your dirty hits."

"Enough!"

Before I could move a step closer, Cruz glided between us, placing a solid hand against my chest and pushing me back two full paces.

I looked up at Cruz, expecting him to turn around and reprimand Nathaniel for a dangerous hit from behind during a non-contact drill. Coach Vale was already walking over toward the boards, looking concerned.

"Cruz, tell him," I demanded, wiping more blood from my chin. "He checked me from behind straight into the boards! That's a dangerous play!"

Cruz turned his gaze toward me. His tone was completely cold, devoid of any sympathy or fairness.

"You should have anticipated the contact," Cruz said flatly.

I stared at him, completely frozen in disbelief. "What?"

"You had your head down," Cruz continued, his voice steady and harsh. "You made a soft play, you got comfortable because you scored once, and you left yourself vulnerable against the boards. This isn't house-league hockey, Hayes. If you put yourself in a bad position, you get hit."

"He hit me from behind after the play was dead!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the high rafters. The entire arena went dead quiet. "Are you serious right now? You're actually defending him?"

"I'm telling you how to survive on my ice," Cruz replied, stepping closer until his shadow fell over me. "You don't whine to the officials, and you don't cry on the ice."

"You're not protecting the team, Cruz," I said, my teeth grinding together as I looked him dead in the eyes. "You're just protecting your rich, spoiled friends because you think guys like me don't deserve to breathe the same air as you."

A collective sharp intake of breath came from the players by the bench. Nobody ever called out Cruz Blackwood publicly like that.

Cruz didn't blink. His expression didn't change at all, but the air between us tightened until it felt suffocating.

"You think this is about money?" Cruz asked, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. "You think you're special because you come from nothing and carry a chip on your shoulder?"

"I know I earned my spot here!" I snapped back, blood smearing across my sleeve as I wiped my chin again. "I earned it with skill, not daddy's country club money!"

"You haven't earned anything until you learn discipline," Cruz said smoothly. He turned his head toward Coach Vale, then looked back at me. "Coach, practice is over for the team. But Hayes needs work on his conditioning and awareness."

Coach Vale hesitated, looking at my cut lip. "Cruz, he's bleeding—"

"He's fine," Cruz interrupted, keeping his eyes locked on mine. "Twenty laps, Hayes. Full speed. Right now. While everyone else goes to the locker room."

"And if I refuse?" I challenged, my heart hammering against my ribs in pure defiance.

"Then you pack your tape-wrapped bag and hand in your jersey before dinner," Cruz whispered, his voice sharp as a blade. "Your choice."

Nathaniel smirked, skating past me toward the exit gate. "Enjoy the extra ice time, scholarship."

One by one, the players filed off the ice, their laughter and talking fading as the heavy doors of the locker room clicked shut. Even Austin gave me an apologetic, helpless look before leaving the rink.

I was left completely alone on the ice.

The main arena lights began to shut off one section at a time, plunging the far ends of the rink into dim shadow. The cold seemed to sink deeper into my bones, but the humiliation burning in my chest kept me warm.

I set my jaw, gripped my stick, and pushed off into my first lap.

One.

My blades sliced through the ice, the rhythm of my breath heavy in the quiet arena. My lip throbbed with every heartbeat, but I didn't slow down.

Five.

They wanted to break me. They wanted me to quit, to pack my bags, to admit that a poor kid from the outer city couldn't make it at Westbridge Academy.

Ten.

I pushed harder, digging my edges deep into the turns, ice spraying against the boards. I wasn't going to give Cruz Blackwood the satisfaction of seeing me drop. I was going to skate until my legs burned to ash before I gave up my scholarship.

Fifteen.

My lungs were burning, my body aching from the slam against the glass, but my pace didn't drop. I flew around the corners, blood drying on my jaw, my teeth grit tight.

Nineteen.

I rounded the final turn and crossed the blue line, finishing the twentieth lap. I slid to a stop near center ice, bending over with my hands resting on my knees, chest heaving heavily as I gasped for air in the dim, freezing silence.

I wiped sweat from my forehead and slowly raised my head.

High up in the top row of the dark, empty bleachers, a single figure was standing in complete silence.

It was Cruz.

He hadn't gone to the showers. He hadn't left with the rest of the team. He was standing near the top railing, wearing his dark team jacket, watching my every single breath from the shadows without saying a word.