The Clash

Push.Glide. Turn. Again. My legs screamed. I didn’t stop. I couldn't stop. If I wasn't perfect, I was nothing.

I checked my reflection in the glass.. Blonde hair, neat. Jersey , straight. The Captain’s rank sat heavy on my chest. I looked like a Simpson. A NHL legacy.

My phone buzzed on the bench. I didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was.

Dad: I saw the clips from yesterday's practice . Your backcheck is lazy. Fix it. The scouts don't sign lazy players.

I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I wasn’t a don, I was a project. I put the phone down and grabbed my stick. I wanted to hit something, I wanted to scream until the glass break.

The heavy double doors of the arena slammed open. I knew the sound of those footsteps.

"You’re going to wear out the ice before the rest of us even get a turn, Captain," a voice called out.

It was Jax Miller.

He was wearing his jersey half-tucked, his dark hair a disaster, and he was carrying his skates over his shoulder.

"Practice doesn't start for an hour, Miller," I snapped, "Get lost."

Jax didn't move. He skated toward me,annoyingly fast. He stopped just inches from me. "I couldn't sleep, captain. Too much energy. Besides, I wanted to see if the rumors were true.

"What rumors?"

"That the great Liam Simpson is a robot," Jax laughed. "You look stiff, Liam. Like you’re afraid if you break a sweat, you’ll break a rule. Is it the dad thing? I heard he’s a real joy."

My blood boiled. "Don't talk about my father. And stay in your lane. We have a system here."

"Your system is boring," Jax whispered. "I think it’s time for a little chaos."

He took off. He didn't follow the drills. He skated in wild circles, cutting across my path, forcing me to stop. He was mocking me. Every time he passed, he kicked ice onto my boots.

"Stop it," I warned.

"Make me," he shot back, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I didn't think. I just reacted. I dropped my shoulder and charged. I caught him in the side, Jax wasn't expecting the hit. He slammed into the boards with a loud thud but he didn't stay down. He stood up, his face red, his smirk replaced by anger. He didn't use his stick; he threw it aside and tackled me.

I felt the cold ice against my cheek as we rolled. Jax grabbed my jersey, his knuckles digging into my throat. "You think you’re so tough because of your name?" he spat, his breath hot against my face. "You’re just a scared little boy."

"I hate everything about you," I choked out.

"The feeling is mutual, Princess," Jax growled.

Just as I prepared to headbutt him, a whistle shot through the air. It was so loud.

"SIMPSON! MILLER!"

There stood coach Iron Mike. His face was a deep, terrifying shade of purple. He marched onto the ice, his shoes slipping, but he didn't care.

"Get up. Now!" he roared.

We scrambled apart, standing on shaky legs. My lip was bleeding. Jax had a dark bruise already forming on his cheekbone. We stood three feet apart, both of us breathing like hunted animals.

"I’ve had enough," Coach said. His voice wasn't loud anymore. It was quiet, which was worse. "I have scouts calling me. I have the Dean calling me. My two best players are trying to kill each other in the dark."

"He started it," I said, my voice trembling.

"I don't care who started it!" The coach barked. He turned to me. "Liam, your father called me this morning. He’s disappointed. He thinks you’ve lost control of this team."

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. "Coach, please…"

"Quiet," Coach ordered. He looked at Jax. "And you. You’re talented, Miller, but you’re a cancer. You’re destroying my locker room."

Coach reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of silver keys. He held them up. They jingled in the silence of the arena.

"The school has a housing problem," Coach said with a mean smile. "And I have a chemistry problem. I’m solving both today."

He threw the keys. They landed on the ice between us.

"You’re moving out of the dorms," Coach announced. "There is a small studio apartment off campus. You two are going to live there. Together. One month. If you can’t learn to pass the puck and act like teammates, you’re both off the roster. No scholarships. No NHL. No hockey."

I looked at the keys. Then I looked at Jax.

"One month?" Jax whispered, the blood dripping from his chin.

"One month," Coach confirmed. "And here’s the best part. There is only one bed."

I looked at the keys again. My life was over. I looked toward the stands and saw a shadow moving in the VIP box. My father had seen everything.