Chapter 4

Jace

Usually, the moment my skates touched the ice, the rest of the world disappeared.

The pressure of being the future Alpha of Silver Ridge disappeared. Classes disappeared. Expectations disappeared. Even Onyx had a habit of settling down once practice started because hockey demanded every ounce of my attention. There wasn’t room to think about anything except the next pass, the next shift, and the next play.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

Coach Daniels’ whistle echoed across the rink as we lined up for breakout drills, but my focus kept slipping somewhere it had no business being. Every time I closed my hand around my stick, another image forced its way into my head. Ava Peters lying on the Combat Training mat. Coach Reynolds kneeling beside her. The look on her face as she insisted she was fine even though anyone with eyes could tell she wasn’t.

She never should’ve been in that class.

She chose to be.

I tightened my grip on my stick.

She doesn’t have a wolf.

That doesn’t mean she stops being one of us.

I ignored him.

Coach blew the whistle again.

“Walker! Let’s go!”

Aaron fired the puck toward me. Normally, I would’ve caught it without thinking, but I reacted a fraction too late. The puck skipped over my blade and slid harmlessly into the corner.

Coach didn’t even bother hiding his irritation.

“Again!”

A few of the guys laughed.

I circled back, more annoyed with myself than with Coach. Missing one pass wasn’t a big deal. Missing two wasn’t like me.

Corey skated alongside me while we reset.

“You look distracted.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve missed two passes.”

“So have you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a grin. “But that’s expected from me. You’re making the rest of us look competent.”

I snorted despite myself.

Aaron joined us at center ice.

“Seriously, what’s going on with you today?”

“Nothing.”

Neither of them looked convinced.

Coach’s whistle shrieked again.

“If you three are done gossiping, maybe we can practice hockey.”

That earned a few laughs from the rest of the team.

The drill started again, and this time I forced myself to focus. My timing returned almost immediately. Pass. Receive. Shoot. Move. Repeat. Muscle memory carried me through the rest of practice, but it wasn’t effortless the way it usually was. Every mistake felt bigger than it should have, and every time I caught myself thinking about Combat Training, I became even more irritated.

Not because of Ava.

Because I hated distractions.

By the time practice finally ended, I was exhausted in the kind of way that usually came after a good workout. Today it felt different. It felt like I’d spent two hours arguing with myself instead of playing hockey.

The locker room buzzed with the usual post-practice chaos. Equipment clattered onto benches, someone had already stolen somebody else’s towel, and Corey was loudly insisting he’d scored twice during the scrimmage despite everyone else remembering exactly one goal.

I had just finished unlacing my skates when the room gradually quieted.

Coach Daniels had walked in.

He wasn’t yelling.

That was almost worse.

He stood just inside the doorway with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm, patiently waiting until every conversation died on its own.

“Walker.”

There it was.

I looked up.

“My office.”

Corey let out a low whistle.

“Good luck.”

Aaron leaned back against his locker.

“What’d you do this time?”

“If I knew,” I muttered, “I’d probably have a better excuse.”

Coach simply turned and walked away.

I followed him down the hallway, passing framed photographs of championship teams dating back decades. Every captain’s picture hung on the wall outside his office. I’d looked at them since I was a freshman, imagining what it would feel like to add my own one day.

Now I wasn’t nearly as confident that would happen.

Coach closed the door behind us.

“Sit.”

I dropped into the chair across from his desk.

For a moment he said nothing, flipping through a folder before finally looking up.

“I got an email from Mrs. Donnelly.”

I resisted the urge to groan.

“I figured.”

“Did you?”

“I know my essay wasn’t great.”

“It wasn’t.”

He slid the paper across the desk.

“It also earned you a sixty-two.”

I glanced at the grade again.

Seeing it a second time didn’t make it any prettier.

Coach rested both forearms on his desk.

“Tell me something, Walker.”

“Okay.”

“What’s more important to you?”

“Hockey.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Wrong answer.”

I frowned.

“It wasn’t a trick question.”

“It was exactly a trick question.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Hockey isn’t more important than your education because without your education, you don’t get hockey.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Then closed it.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Blackwood’s academic standards weren’t suggestions. Every athlete knew that before they ever stepped onto campus.

“You’ve got the talent to play anywhere,” Coach continued. “But talent doesn’t matter if you’re sitting in study hall while the rest of the team is on the ice.”

“I’ll bring the grade up.”

“I believe you will.”

The confidence in his voice surprised me.

Then he ruined it.

“With help.”

He slid another sheet of paper toward me.

Mandatory Academic Intervention.

I stared at the words.

“No.”

Coach folded his arms.

“Yes.”

“I don’t need tutoring.”

“You do.”

“I had one bad paper.”

“You’ve had three assignments below your usual standard.”

I frowned.

“Three?”

He nodded.

“You’ve been getting by on ability instead of effort. Mrs. Donnelly finally got tired of waiting for you to realize it.”

That one landed.

Because deep down…

I knew she was right.

I just hated hearing it from someone else.

I skimmed the page.

Three afternoons a week.

Library.

Four o’clock.

Then my eyes reached the bottom.

Assigned Student Tutor

I read the name once.

Then again.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Coach looked almost amused.

“I take it you know Miss Peters.”

“I know who she is.”

“Good.”

“No,” I corrected. “Not good.”

He waited.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“And why is that?”

Because she already thinks I’m an arrogant jerk.

Because I called her Puck Bunny.

Because I spent the last two years making sure she wanted nothing to do with me.

Instead I said,

“We don’t exactly… get along.”

Coach’s expression never changed.

“Then perhaps this is an opportunity for both of you to mature.”

That wasn’t the answer I’d been hoping for.

He stood, signaling the conversation was over.

“I don’t care whether you enjoy tutoring.”

“I care whether you pass English.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll watch hockey from the stands.”

The words hit harder than any body check I’d ever taken.

He held my gaze for another second before nodding toward the door.

“You’re dismissed.”

I walked back into the locker room still holding the paper.

Corey noticed immediately.

“That bad?”

I tossed my gear into my bag.

“Worse.”

Aaron reached for the paper before I could stop him.

His eyebrows climbed higher with every line he read.

“Oh…”

Corey took it from him.

“What?”

Aaron folded his arms, already trying not to laugh.

“Read the bottom.”

Corey’s eyes landed on the tutor’s name.

Silence.

Then he burst into laughter loud enough that two freshmen walking past the locker room looked inside to see what had happened.

“No.”

He wiped at his eyes.

“They actually did it.”

I held out my hand.

“Give me the paper.”

He handed it back, still laughing.

“You’ve got to admit…”

“I don’t.”

“Walker, you’re being tutored by the girl you’ve been calling Puck Bunny since sophomore year.”

“I know how to read.”

“I don’t think she likes you.”

“I noticed.”

Aaron shook his head.

“I’d pay to watch that first session.”

I folded the paper and shoved it into my hockey bag harder than necessary.

The locker room slowly returned to normal as everyone finished changing, but Onyx remained unusually quiet.

Finally, as I slung my bag over my shoulder, he spoke.

She stood back up.

I frowned.

We’re talking about tutoring.

No. We’re talking about Ava.

I sighed.

She got hurt because she doesn’t have a wolf.

His answer came immediately.

No.

She got hurt because someone stronger chose not to follow the rules.

I stopped walking.

She still doesn’t belong in Combat Training.

Maybe.

But she belongs here.

How would you know?

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then, in a voice quieter than I’d ever heard from him, Onyx said,

Because every person in that gym expected her to quit.

She didn’t.

I didn’t answer.

For reasons I couldn’t explain…

Neither did he.