Chapter 8: The First Line

Elliot's POV

I placed my hands flat against Cruz's chest and gently pushed back.

The heat of his body seemed to follow me as I took two small steps backward on the ice, creating space between us. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs that I was sure he could see my chest moving under my jersey.

Cruz snapped back into his distant, guarded stance instantly. The softness in his expression vanished, replaced in a split second by the calm, aloof expression he wore every day.

"Head back to the dorms, Hayes," Cruz said, his voice dropping into a flat, quiet tone. "Security runs their final walk-through in ten minutes. If you get caught out here after curfew, not even your new blades will save you from suspension."

"What about you?" I asked, my voice still slightly breathless as I adjusted my grip on my stick. "You're out here past curfew too."

"I have a key to the building," Cruz answered smoothly, turning his back to skate toward the home bench. "You don't. Move."

I stood there for a second, watching him pick up his gloves from the boards without looking back at me. The silence between us felt thick, charged with everything we hadn't said, but I knew he was right. I pulled my skate guard covers on, stepped off the ice, and slipped out the side door into the quiet night air before the guards made their rounds.

***************************

The next morning, the energy inside the Westbridge Academy locker room was loud and chaotic.

Skate blades scraped against the rubber flooring, lockers slammed shut, and the sharp scent of grip tape filled the air. Everyone knew what today meant. This was the final practice before our opening match of the season against Eastview Academy, and Coach Vale was set to announce the official starting line.

"Did you hear the rumor?" Austin asked, leaning over toward my stall as he pulled his shoulder pads over his head. "They're saying Coach might drop two senior players to the second line because of their defensive stats from last week."

"He should," I said, tying my skate laces with tight, deliberate pulls. "The line shifts were slow during the entire scrimmage yesterday."

"Just be careful, Elliot," Austin whispered, glancing nervously over at Nathaniel Reed, who was sitting three stalls down with a group of senior players. "Nathaniel has been glaring at you since you walked into the room. If he hears you talking about line shifts, he's going to blow a fuse."

"Let him glare," I replied, grabbing my helmet from the top shelf. "Glares don't score goals."

The heavy double doors of the locker room swung open, and Coach Frederick Vale walked in, carrying a clipboard. Cruz followed right behind him, dressed in his full captain gear, his face completely unreadable as his eyes swept over the room. He didn't look at me once, acting as if last night in the dark arena had never happened.

"Listen up! Quiet down!" Coach Vale called out, clapping his hands together twice.

The chatter in the locker room died down immediately. Every single player froze, turning their heads toward the front of the room.

"Today we set the final roster for tomorrow's opening match," Coach Vale began, looking down at his paper. "I don't care about your year, your background, or who your parents are. I care about performance on the ice. The first line sets the tone for the entire team, and based on this week's evaluation, I am making a change."

Nathaniel puffed his chest out slightly, adjusting his collar with a smug smirk on his face.

"On the left wing, Captain Cruz Blackwood," Coach Vale announced.

A few players tapped their sticks against the bench in approval.

"On defense, Nathaniel Reed," Coach Vale continued.

Nathaniel nodded, looking over at his friends with a proud, confident grin.

"And on the right wing," Coach Vale paused, his eyes scanning the room before settling straight on my stall. "Elliot Hayes."

The locker room went dead silent.

I froze in place, my hands still gripping my helmet. A sudden, massive rush of pure shock hit my chest, followed instantly by a surge of overwhelming pride. The first line. He had put a scholarship rookie on the first line.

"What?" Nathaniel shouted, jumping up from his bench so fast his stick fell to the floor with a loud clatter. "Coach, are you serious right now? You're putting a walk-on rookie on the starting line?"

Coach Vale kept his expression calm. "I put the player who created the most scoring chances during drills on the starting line, Nathaniel."

"He's a scholarship player!" Nathaniel yelled, his face turning red with frustration as he pointed a finger directly at me. "He's been here for less than a week! He doesn't have the experience, he doesn't have the status, and he sure as hell shouldn't be taking a starting spot from a senior player who has dedicated three years to this program!"

"He earned the spot on merit, Nathaniel," Coach Vale said sternly, tapping his clipboard. "The decision is made."

"It's an insult to the entire team!" Nathaniel argued, stepping toward Coach Vale, his voice loud enough to echo off the metal lockers. "His gear is second-hand, his style is reckless, and he doesn't belong on the same ice as us! You're letting a poor kid take what belongs to us!"

"Sit down, Reed."

The voice was low, sharp, and completely dominant.

Cruz stepped forward from beside Coach Vale, moving into the center of the locker room. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer cold authority in his tone stopped Nathaniel in his tracks.

"You're questioning Coach's decision?" Cruz asked, stepping directly into Nathaniel's space, his blue-gray eyes locking onto the senior player with a freezing glare. "Or are you just upset because a rookie outskated you on your own defensive drill yesterday?"

Several lower-tier players in the back giggled quietly, trying to hide their faces behind their towels. Nathaniel's face burned bright red, humiliated in front of the entire squad.

"Cruz, come on," Nathaniel stammered, his confidence crumbling under Cruz's glare. "You know he's a liability. You benched him yourself two days ago!"

"I benched him to teach him discipline," Cruz replied smoothly, holding Nathaniel's gaze until the senior player dropped his eyes. "And he learned. He adjusted his edges, he fixed his angles, and he scored clean goals. If you spent half as much time fixing your open gaps as you do complaining about who deserves to be here, you wouldn't be worried about your position."

Nathaniel bit his lip hard, his fists clenched tight at his sides, but he didn't dare say another word to Cruz. He slowly backed down, sitting back on his bench in bitter silence.

"Everyone on the ice in five minutes," Cruz ordered, turning his head toward the rest of the room. "We're running line coordination drills."

The players quickly began grabbing their gear, the tension in the room easing back into standard pre-practice noise. I stood up, pulling my helmet on and strapping it tight under my chin.

As Cruz walked past my stall toward the door, he slowed down for a split second. He didn't speak out loud, but as his eyes met mine, he gave me a tiny, almost invisible nod of acknowledgment before stepping out onto the ice.

A quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. Everything between us had changed. The ruthless captain who had tried to break me on my first day was now standing between me and the people who wanted to tear me down.

Practicing on the first line was electric.

Skating beside Cruz was effortless in a way I had never experienced with any other player. He didn't even need to look to know where I was on the ice. When I cut wide toward the right wing, his passes landed cleanly on my stick before I even had to ask for them. We moved together like a single unit, sweeping past the second-line defense and putting three pucks into the back of the net within ten minutes.

"Nice goal, Elliot!" Austin cheered from the bench as I glided past after a clean wrist shot. "You guys look unstoppable out there!"

I pulled up near the red line, breathing hard, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time all week. I looked over at Cruz, who was standing near the face-off circle, wiping sweat from his forehead. He met my eyes and offered a subtle, satisfied smirk.

By the time practice ended two hours later, my body was completely exhausted, but my spirit felt higher than it ever had. I had secured my athletic validation. I belonged on this ice, and no one could take that away from me now.

I walked back into the locker room after the rest of the team had cleared out to shower. The room was quiet, lit by the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the high windows.

I stepped over to my stall and sat down on the wooden bench to unlace my skates. I reached down, grabbed my large canvas gym bag from under the seat, and unzipped the main pocket to grab my clean towel.

Inside my bag, sitting right on top of my street clothes, was something that hadn't been there before.

It was a small, folded piece of white paper.

I frowned, setting my towel aside and reaching into the bag to pick it up. There was no name on the outside, no stamp, and no signature.

I unfolded the paper carefully, my heart taking a slow, uneasy dip.

Scrawled across the middle of the page in sharp, messy black ink was a single sentence:

[STAY AWAY FROM BLACKWOOD IF YOU WANT TO SURVIVE IN THIS ACADEMY.]