BIG EGO

NIKO’S P.O.V

Coach gave Jacobson one last look before walking out of the locker room.

One after another, my teammates walked past Jacobson without saying a word. Some completely avoided looking at him. His shoulders dropped lower and lower with every person who passed as if trying to shrink away entirely.

Jesus. How long had this kid been treated like this?

Watching everyone in the room laugh at him had pissed me off more than I cared to admit. These guys had clearly decided he was dead weight long before Coach finally cut him.

The last player strode past, casting a cold warning look. I knew him well—Axel Carter, the captain of my new team. He didn’t say a word, and neither did I. He left the room without even glancing at Jacobson, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Finally, Jacobson and I were alone.

He was still standing near the door, his hockey bag dangling loosely from one hand, his head down. He hadn’t looked at me properly once since we arrived.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

My question prompted him to lift his gaze, giving me a clear view of his face.

He was a full foot shorter than me, which made the height difference pretty comical when I thought about it. His light, curly hair was a bit messy, with a few strands falling across his forehead. He had pale brown eyes and full, peachy lips.

I hadn’t expected it, but he was attractive.

When he didn’t answer, I asked again. “You hit your head pretty hard last night. Does Coach know about that?”

“No.”

I frowned. Why wouldn’t he tell Coach that he had been in the hospital the night before?

“Well, you should get some rest. I don’t think you’re in the right condition to train today.”

His brows pulled together as he adjusted the strap of the bag on his narrow shoulders. He had a much smaller frame than most of the guys on the team. Not weak-looking, just smaller. Delicate, even.

“Were you serious about training me?” he asked.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Why’d you do all of that?”

“All of what?”

“Standing up for me... talking to Coach. Why?”

His question caught me off guard. It wasn't what I was expecting to hear at all.

*Thank you so much, Niko.*

*I’ll do my best. I won’t let you down, Niko.*

Those were the kinds of phrases I’d expected to hear. Not this.

“There’s a difference between being the weakest player on a team and being worthless,” I answered. “You’re neither of those things.”

His frown deepened, creating a crease between his brows. “I get what you’re trying to do, and I don’t need your pity.”

“Pity? What are you talking about—”

“I don’t need your help either. You didn’t have to do what you did. I would have been fine on my own,” he insisted, his gaze drifting past me.

Fine on his own?

I genuinely wondered if I’d heard him correctly.

The guy had just been kicked off the team. He’d nearly cried in front of everyone. He’d dropped his helmet, fallen flat on his ass, and been laughed at by half the damn locker room. And now he was standing in front of me pretending he didn’t need anyone?

I almost laughed. “You would have been fine?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Right.”

His eyes finally met mine, showing a stubborn flash of pride.

“You told me the same thing last night... you refused my help then, too,” I reminded him.

A faint flush of embarrassment colour. “You didn’t need to bring that up.”

“I didn’t want to. I’m just pointing out that you have a habit of refusing help when you obviously need it.”

“I didn’t ask for your help then, and I’m not asking for it now. I’m not some charity case for you to work on just to make yourself feel good,” he scowled.

What a bitter little guy. Why was he so stubborn and defensive?

“I get it, you’re embarrassed, and I don't want to make you feel worse. My intentions are—”

“I don’t care what they are. I’m fine, just leave me alone,” he cut in.

“You have a pretty big ego for a little guy, you know?” I said, irritated by his attitude. “Are you telling me you’d rather walk away from hockey than accept two weeks of help? Isn’t hockey your biggest dream or something?”

The stubbornness in his eyes finally faltered. “How do you know that?”

I shrugged. “Your mom.”

Of course. He’d had a game and couldn't make it to dinner, but his mom had talked about him enough for me to realise just how much she cared about his hockey career. Her face had practically lit up every single time she mentioned it.

“Hockey has always been his biggest dream.”

I could still hear the pride in her voice. She had told my dad and me all about how Jeremy first started playing, how hard he’d worked to get into Westbrook, and how much he wanted to make it professionally one day. Then, she’d found out that I played hockey too. That was the moment she got really excited.

“Maybe you two can bond over hockey,” she’d said with a smile.

At the time, I’d thought it was funny. I definitely hadn’t expected that by the next morning, I’d be standing in a locker room, fighting to keep her son’s hockey career alive.

“Look, I’m sorry if I said anything offensive,” I said, focusing back on him. “I’m really blunt, and I just say things as they are. But I genuinely want to help you. You can either spend the next two weeks letting me do that, or you can spend them feeling sorry for yourself. If you choose that, I’ll happily go tell Coach and the rest of the team that they were completely right about you.”

His guarded expression softened just a fraction, though that stubborn glint still lingered in his eyes.

“Don’t give up before I’ve even had the chance to see what you’re actually capable of,” I added.

For a few seconds, he said nothing. Then, he gave me the smallest nod.

“Good,” I said, stepping forward.

Before he could stop me, I reached out and snatched the hockey bag right out of his hand.

“Hey! You can’t just steal my stuff.”

I offered a lazy smile. “I’m not stealing. I’m just making sure you show up for practice. You’ll get it back tomorrow when you come bright and early.”

He scowled, but I ignored him, keeping the bag well out of his reach. Realising he wasn’t going to win a physical tug-of-war, he spun on his heel to leave.

“Jeremy,” I called out.

He turned around, a questioning look flickering across his face.

“You’re supposed to move in with me,” I said, taking a step closer as my lips curved into an inviting smile.

“So… when is that going to happen?”