SUAMIKU MANTAN GENGSTER

​I sat on the wooden bench of the locker room, hunched over, staring at the scarred floorboards between my skates. The air in here was a thick soup of smelling salts, stale sweat, and the sharp, chemical tang of laundry detergent that never quite got the blood out of the practice jerseys.

​Around me, the rest of the Knights were a blur of shouting and high-fives.

Bass-heavy rap thudded from a speaker in the corner, vibrating in my chest, but it didn't do anything to drown out the noise in my head.

​"Thorne! Head in the game or on the ice?"

​I looked up. Miller, our goalie, was staring at me while he strapped on his massive leg pads. He looked like a transformer halfway through a shift.

​"I'm good," I said, my voice sounding raspier than I wanted. I reached for my helmet, checking the cage for the hundredth time.

​"You look like shit," Miller grunted, not unkindly. "Listen, I know about the Liam thing. Everyone knows. Don't let that prick get to you today. We need you on defense, not in the penalty box because you're trying to take someone's head off. Chill. It will all pass."

​The 'Liam thing.' My best friend, well, former best friend and my ex, Chloe.

They’d been official for three weeks. I’d found out via a tagged I*******m post that it had felt like a cross-check to the throat.

Chloe didn't even break up with me officially before getting together with Liam. It was like what we had never existed. In her eyes, that is.

​"I'm not going to the box, Miller. I'm going to play my game," I lied.

​I stood up, the extra twenty pounds of gear making my movements feel heavy and deliberate. I was 6’2” and built for the defensive line, broad, solid, a wall of muscle meant to stop guys from getting anywhere near the crease. Usually, the weight of the pads made me feel invincible.

Today, they just felt like lead.

​I started toward the tunnel, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of skates on the rubber matting filling the hallway. That’s when I saw him.

​Michael Rossi was leaning against the doorframe of the visitors' locker room.

He didn’t play for us. He played for the State Rebels, our biggest rivals. Our school oversees two universities: Northwood and Westwood College. Even though both are under the same administration, the tension between them is fierce. Each has its own hockey team, and the rivalry between the Northwood Knights and the Westwood Rebels isn’t just about sports, it’s personal.

Recently, Westwood ran into a major problem, and the principal had no choice but to transfer all Westwood students to Northwood. That meant students from the two rival universities were now forced to share the same campus, the same classrooms, and the same corridors. Which also meant I had no choice but to breathe the same air as Michael Rossi.

He was forward, a fast, flashy, bisexual superstar who lived for the camera and the highlight reels. He was also the guy who had kissed my girlfriend a year ago at a frat party. The guy who started the domino effect of my life falling apart.

​He was already geared up, his dark jersey making him look even broader than usual. He had a piece of gum in his mouth, chewing slowly as he watched our team file past.

​When I got close, his eyes locked onto mine. He didn't look away. He never looked away because it was obvious he liked challenging me.

​"Hey, Thorne," he said, his voice a smooth, low drawl that made my blood pressure spike instantly.

​

I didn't stop. I didn't even want to give him the satisfaction of a glance.

​"Heard you're single again," Michael continued, loud enough for the guys behind me to hear.

"Rough break. You’d think after the first time, you’d learn how to keep a girl’s attention. Or maybe you’re just better at playing defense than keeping what’s yours."

​My vision tunneled. I stopped, my skates digging into the rubber mat. I turned my head just enough to see the smug, crooked tilt of his mouth. He looked so effortless and relaxed. Like he wasn't about to go out and play a high-stakes game.

​"Go to hell, Rossi," I spat.

​"Already there, sweetheart, and I also plan to take you there with me. You don't belong to the light anyways" he winked, pushing off the wall. "See you on the ice. Try to keep up."

​He skated past me into the tunnel, the swagger in his stride so arrogant I could feel the heat radiating off my own skin. My heart wasn't just beating; it was thudding against my ribs like a trapped animal.

​I fisted my hands inside my gloves. He was right about one thing. I was a defenseman. I was supposed to be the one who didn't let anyone through.

​But as I stepped out onto the ice and the cold air hit my face, I realized I wasn't just playing for the win anymore. I was playing to survive the humiliation.

The cold hit me the second I cleared the tunnel.

​It was a shock to the system, the kind that usually cleared my head, but today it just felt like it was freezing the rage into my bones.

The arena was buzzing, that low, vibrating hum of a packed house on a Friday night. Blue and white jerseys in the stands, the smell of popcorn and expensive stadium beer, and the blinding white of the fresh ice reflecting off the plexiglass.

​I did a lap, digging my blades in hard, feeling the bite of the ice. I needed to feel the burn in my quads to distract me from the burning in my chest.

​As I circled back toward our bench, I looked up. It was a habit. A masochistic one.

​There they were. Third row, center ice.

​

Liam was wearing his varsity jacket, my varsity jacket to be precise from sophomore year that I’d lent him and he’d never returned.