Chapter 5

Alex

I didn’t even make it on time to the financial aid office on purpose. The coach had emailed the whole team some bullshit about “mandatory compliance checks” and attached a spreadsheet with our names and times like we were signing up for flu shots. Mine was 2:17 p.m. I showed up at 2:30 because fuck being early for anything that could end me.

When I arrived, the door was cracked. I pushed it open with my shoulder. The woman looked up fast, like she’d been hoping I’d no-show.

“Alex Rivera?” Her voice was calm, too calm. “Come in. Sit.”

I dropped into the chair. It squeaked so loud it echoed. Fake plant in the corner looked half-dead. Posters on the wall yelled “YOUR FUTURE STARTS HERE” in that ugly Comic Sans font that makes everything sound like a scam. I crossed my arms tight, trying to look chill. But I failed.

She opened my file. Thin stack of papers. That made my pulse jump harder.

“Grades are holding steady,” she said, flipping pages. “Econ’s sitting at a B-minus. Psych is a solid A. You’re doing the work. That’s what we like to see.”

I nodded. Once. Get on with it.

“But.”

My whole body tensed. But. Always the fucking but.

“Athletic eligibility is linked to this aid package. We received a note from Coach. Nothing dramatic, just mentions some interpersonal dynamics on the team that could be impacting focus.” She met my eyes for the first time. “No names. Just a flag.”

My stomach lurched so hard I tasted bile. “Interpersonal dynamics,” I said. Sounded dumb coming out of my mouth.

“Yeah. It’s vague on purpose.” She tapped her pen against the desk.. “Locker-room tension. Happens with every team eventually. Guys clash. Personalities rub wrong. But the point is…” She leaned forward a little. “We need consistent on-ice performance. No slips. No red flags. If there’s a dip, the athletic department can recommend we pull the scholarship for not meeting the terms. I’m not saying it’s at that point. This is just a heads-up. Early warning.”

Heads-up. Like someone whispering “watch your back” right before they shove you off a cliff.

I stared at the fake plant. One leaf was curled brown at the edge. “So basically… don’t fuck up.”

“Pretty much.” She closed the folder. Quiet snap. “You’re doing fine right now, Alex. Really. Just keep it steady. Any questions?”

Questions? Yeah. A million. What exactly did Coach write? Did he mention me by name behind closed doors? Is this about Damien? Does the whole athletic department already know I’m the problem? Am I one argument, one bad practice, one leaked text away from losing everything? But I couldn’t ask. Not without cracking open and spilling everything.

“Nah,” I forced out. “I’m good.”

“Great. My door’s always open if something comes up. Seriously.”

I stood too fast. Chair squealed again. I muttered “thanks” and bolted. Door shut behind me with a soft click that felt like a gunshot.

I walked past the rink without meaning to. Heard the scrape of blades, pucks slamming boards, someone bellowing “Move your ass, Thompson!” over and over. Normal rink chaos. I stopped for half a second at the glass doors. Peeked in. Lights bright. Guys circling. Damien was there, center ice, stick tapping, head down, focused. No smirk. Just him skating hard, like he was trying to outrun something too.

I turned away fast. Couldn’t go in. If our eyes met right then I’d either skate straight at him or bolt again. Neither felt safe.

Library. Had to be the library. Climbed the stairs to the third floor. Legs heavy. Found a corner table tucked behind tall shelves. Dropped my bag. Yanked out the econ textbook. Slammed it open. Stared at graphs of supply and demand. I couldn't and didn't ’ read shit.

Twenty minutes. Thirty. Didn’t move. Just sat breathing too loud in the dead quiet.

Phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Group chat lighting up.

Coach: Optional film tonight 7pm weight room. Review last weekend’s series. Attendance is not mandatory but you know what I think about optional.

Three dots dancing. Then Damien’s name.

Damien: I’m in.

My thumb hovered. Heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted out. Of course he was in. Of course he had to reply right then, like he could smell my panic from across campus.

I didn’t type back. I locked the phone. Slammed it face-down so hard the table jumped. Pressed my forehead to the textbook.. My own sweat soaked in. My forehead stuck when I finally lifted it.

I stayed until the overhead lights flickered. Security guy wandered by, coughed loud, pointed at his watch like I was stupid. I nodded. Zipped my bag slowly .

I walked back to the dorms even slower. Hood up. Hands jammed deep in pockets. Cold bit my knuckles. Ms. Patel’s words looped louder with every step.

One bad stretch and I’m back home on Mom’s lumpy couch, fridge humming louder than it cools, waking up to her asking . No ice. No team. No shot at pro. No degree. Just me, the hum, and the walls pressing in tighter every day.

***

Weights session was the usual hell. I was on the lat pulldown machine, pulling the bar down slowly, counting reps in my head to keep my brain from wandering back to last night’s almost-disaster on the ice.

Jax appeared out of nowhere. He didn't say hi. Just dropped onto the bench next to me, adjusted the weight stack on his own machine, and started mirroring my reps. Silently at first.

After my third set he finally spoke. “You icing that bruise on your ribs?”

I let the bar up slowly. “Yeah. Sorta.”

“Sorta means no.”

“Sorta means fuck off nicely, Jax.”

He snorted short, real laugh. “Fair enough. You good for the weekend series? We play those assholes from the States again.”

“Peachy.” I dropped the stack with a loud clang that made a couple guys glance over. “Can’t wait to get checked into next week by their captain. Should be a blast.”

Jax wiped sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Flash of abs, nothing flashy, just normal teammate shit. He was so hot and I was literally sweating from looking at him.

“But you sure you good?” he repeated.

“I'm very alright.” he said nothing and kept staring at me.

I twisted the cap off, took a long pull, swallowed hard. Buying time. “It’s nothing.”

“Cool.” He didn’t push. Just leaned back, arms crossed loose over his chest. “If you need someone to spot you or whatever. Or just… I don’t know. Stand there and shut up. I can do that.”

I looked at him then. No smirk. No side-eye. No fishing for gossip. Just Jax. big shoulders, steady eyes, zero bullshit.

“Thanks,” I muttered. I hated how small and cracked my voice came out.

He nodded once. Quick. Went back to his reps like the conversation never happened.

Later we ended up in the training room. Mats spread out, both of us on our backs stretching hamstrings. Legs up, hands behind thighs, pulling slowly.

The doorway was open. Damien walked past, gym bag slung over one shoulder, head down, moving fast like he had somewhere better to be. Didn’t glance in. Didn’t slow down to even look at me. Just kept going.

Jax saw it. His eyes flicked to the doorway, then to me. Held for half a second. Then back to his stretch. No comment. No nothing.

I stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted the little black dots in one of them.

I hated how easy it was around Jax. No stomach dropping out. No pulse hammering in my throat. No voice in my head screaming run or kiss him or both at the same time. Just… normal.

And I hated even more that some tiny, shitty part of my brain whispered what if you just picked the safe one? What if you stopped fighting the thing that could actually destroy you and went with the one that wouldn’t cost you everything? No scholarship hanging by a thread. No 3 a.m. voice notes that made your dick hard and your chest hurt at the same time. No memory of his forearm across your chest against the boards, breath hot on your mouth, eyes dark and hungry.

But picking safe felt like quitting. Like admitting I wasn’t tough enough to want the thing that scared me shitless.

And I wasn’t ready to quit yet.

Team dinner Thursday night. Mandatory. Alumni paid for it so we all had to show up and smile pretty. Italian place off campus, long table shoved together, red-and-white checkered cloths that looked like they’d seen better decades, pitchers of watery soda and even weaker beer for the guys over twenty-one. The coach stood up halfway through appetizers, gave the usual speech about heart, grit, brotherhood, not being dicks to each other on or off the ice. Everyone clapped like we were at a pep rally. Fake enthusiasm level: expert.

I ended up between Jax and some other player . Damien was across the table, two seats down. Close enough I could see his jaw flex every time someone laughed too loud. Far enough I didn’t have to speak to him. Perfect distance for torture.

I drank. Started slowly with beer to take the edge off the chatter. Then someone yelled for shots. Lime wedges appeared. Salt shakers got passed. I did one. Burned going down, warmed my chest. Did another. The room tilted a little. Fun tilt. Not scary yet.

By the third my skin felt too tight. Shirt collar scratching my neck. Sweat prickling under my arms even though the AC was blasting. Laughter got louder in my ears. Someone,Thompson probably slapped my back too hard. I pushed my chair back.

“Gonna step out,” I said. Voice came out rougher than I meant.

Jax glanced up from his plate. “You good?”

“Peachy,” I said. Same stupid word again. Like a glitch.

Outside the cold air did no help. I paced the sidewalk, hands on top of my head, breathing through my mouth in big gulps. Too hot. Way too hot. Shirt sticking to my back. Collar choking. I yanked at the buttons, top two popped open. Then the next one. Halfway down my chest now. Didn’t give a shit who saw.

I walked without thinking. Past the parking lot. Past the streetlights buzzing. Little park tucked behind the strip mall swings, rusty slide, one bench with a broken slat. Empty. Perfect.

I dropped onto the middle swing. Chains creaked loud. Plastic seat ice-cold through my jeans. I rocked once, back, forward. Shirt hanging open, night air hitting bare skin. Goosebumps raced up my arms, my chest. But it didn't and could not cool the fire inside me. It was getting scary. Like I needed a man by me, like I wanted to be touched.

Head spinning. Not blackout drunk. Just loose. Loose enough that everything bubbled close to the surface, the advisor’s voice saying one bad stretch, Damien’s low words on that voice note, Jax’s quiet offer to just stand there and shut up, my own heartbeat kicking every time Damien looked at me like I was his favorite problem.

I laughed once. “Fucking great job, Rivera. Real winner.”

The swing chain rattled as I leaned way back, staring up at the streetlight flickering overhead.

Then a voice, low, rough, familiar enough to make my whole body lock up.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

I didn’t turn around right away. Just gripped the chains tighter. Knuckles white. I could barely see anything, my vision was blurry.

But the footsteps on the gravel continued. Slowly and steadily .

I still didn’t look.

Then I felt his hands on my corners as he lifted me.

Who could it possibly be, why did he have such a sweet smell to make my stomach flip?