All Chapters of Rejected by my team, Claimed by the Rival: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

122 Chapters

Hundred and Eleven

AUTHOR’S POVTWO DAYS LATERMorning traffic on the 405 freeway crawled at a miserable, grinding pace. Heat waves rippled off the hoods of the idling cars, distorting the Los Angeles skyline into a hazy, washed-out blur.Inside the air-conditioned cabin of the SUV, Athena stared out the passenger window, tapping her fingers rhythmically against her knee."Stop doing that," Jeremiah murmured from the driver’s seat. He kept his eyes on the bumper of the sedan in front of them, his hands resting loosely on the steering wheel."Doing what?""Vibrating." He shot her a brief, sideways glance. "You are tapping a hole into your jeans. She is going to be fine, Athena. The surgeon said the swelling went down.""Surgeons sugarcoat things." Shifting in her seat, Athena grabbed the cardboard drink carrier resting in the center console. "Talia took a tire iron to the head, Jeremiah. Because of me. Because she was trying to help me clear my name. I just want to see her standing upright.""We will be t

Hundred and Twelve

ATHENAShrill metal cut through the freezing air. Dropping the silver whistle from my lips, my breath plumed into a thick white cloud over the scarred ice."Stop!" Cupping my hands around my mouth, the sound echoed off the high rafters of the Ashford arena. "Reset it! That was a mess!"Blades scraped hard against the surface as fifteen exhausted college athletes hit the brakes. Shaved ice sprayed over the blue line, settling onto the freshly cut rink. Six a.m. practices were brutal, but securing a spot in the upcoming exhibition tournament required a flawless transition game.Pacing the perimeter, the chill seeped through the thick cotton of my oversized black Nike hoodie. I pulled the sleeves over my knuckles, shifting my weight. The white socks pulled high over my leggings offered a bit of warmth, but the arena always felt like a meat locker before the sun fully rose over Los Angeles."Miller, get over here," I commanded, gesturing toward the bench.The lanky defenseman skated over,

Hundred and Thirteen

ATHENASunlight battered the sprawling green lawns of the UCLA quad. Friday afternoon campus life buzzed around us in a chaotic blur of flying frisbees, iced coffees, and sprawling picnic blankets. The heat sat heavy on my shoulders, baking the dark fabric of my t-shirt."I am telling you, he is maximum delulu," Tessa said, shoving her phone screen directly into my face.Blinking against the glare, I stared at a TikTok video of a frat boy earnestly explaining why his girlfriend shouldn't be allowed to have male study partners. The comments scrolling underneath were ruthless."He thinks he’s the main character," Tessa laughed, swiping to the next video. "Liam knows guys like this. They literally perceive reality through a different dimension. It is giving massive insecurity.""Fascinating," I muttered, gently pushing her wrist away so I could see my tablet screen. "Can we focus on the actual psychopath trying to ruin my life instead of TikTok?"Tessa sighed, locking her phone and tossi

Hundred and Fourteen

JEREMIAH Deafening cheers shook the metal bleachers inside the Westwood gymnasium. Thousands of students packed the stands, stomping their feet in rhythm to the marching band’s heavy drumline. The air smelled of floor wax and cheap body spray, thick with the humid energy of a Friday afternoon pep rally.Standing near the center court logo, I crossed my arms and tuned out the chaotic noise. The athletic director, a balding man sweating through his polo, tapped the microphone."Listen up, Falcons!" His voice boomed over the PA system, cutting through the roar of the crowd. "Next weekend, we kick off the spring semester with the first annual Westwood Classic! An intra-squad exhibition tournament to shake up the roster!"Students screamed, rattling the bleachers."We are splitting the team," the director continued, gesturing toward the line of hockey players standing behind him. "Captain Jeremiah Ashford will draft and lead the Blue Squad. And stepping up to coach the White Squad is our

Hundred and Fifteen

ATHENA Rain hammered the stone steps of Powell Library, bouncing off the concrete in angry, freezing bursts.Pushing the heavy glass exit doors open, the storm immediately soaked the shoulders of my jacket. Los Angeles rarely saw rain like this. The sudden downpour turned the usually bustling campus into a ghost town. Midnight approached, leaving the winding brick pathways deserted under the flickering amber glow of the streetlamps.Hugging three thick, heavy playbooks against my chest, I pulled my hood up.My goal consisted of reaching my dorm room, stripping off these wet clothes, and sleeping for five uninterrupted hours before morning ice drills.Stepping off the curb, my boots splashed into a deep puddle. Cold water seeped through the canvas fabric, chilling my toes. I picked up my pace, keeping my head down against the biting wind. The rhythmic slap of my footsteps echoed off the brick facades of the surrounding academic buildings.A low, mechanical hum cut through the noise of

Hundred and Sixteen

JEREMIAH Game tape flickered on the flat-screen TV, casting a pale, bluish glow across the dark living room. Rain lashed against the townhouse windows, a steady, driving rhythm drowning out the low hum of the refrigerator.Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I paused the video. The opposing center telegraphed his face-offs. He always dipped his left shoulder right before the puck dropped. Tapping my pen against the legal pad, I jotted the observation down.The heavy brass deadbolt rattled. Metal scraped frantically against metal.Dropping the pen, I stood up. The front door shoved open, hitting the rubber wall stop with a loud thud.Athena stumbled inside.She looked like a ghost. Rainwater poured off her dark jacket, pooling instantly on the hardwood floor. Her face held a sickly, pale pallor, stripping away her usual fierce color. Her chest heaved in jagged, erratic bursts, and her hands shook violently as she pushed the heavy door shut, leaning her full body weight against the wood to s

117

ATHENAA deafening bass rattled the rubber mats beneath my black heels. The Westwood Classic brought out a feral, unfiltered energy in the student body. Glancing up into the packed rafters, neon poster boards formed a chaotic sea of inside jokes and ruthless trash talk.*DELTA SIG SKATES LIKE MY GRANDMA.**I'M ONLY HERE FOR JEREMIAH ASHFORD.**WHITE SQUAD ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS.*Standing behind the bench, I adjusted the lapels of my tailored black blazer. Swapping my usual oversized hoodie for a sharp, professional suit was a calculated move. The athletic board sat in the lower bowl, watching my every move. They expected a college sophomore to crack under the pressure of coaching a live roster. I intended to give them a tactical masterclass instead."Line two, you're up!" I shouted over the blaring hip-hop track shaking the arena glass.Miller and Davis hopped the boards, their skates hitting the ice with a sharp crunch. They lined up against a squad composed entirely of wealthy frat

118

ATHENAThe buzzer blared, vibrating through the thick plexiglass of the arena bench. First period of the semi-finals wrapped up, leaving my White Squad clinging to a fragile one-goal lead.Wiping sweat from my forehead, I tapped my clipboard against the boards. The players filed past me, chests heaving, adrenaline masking their exhaustion."Great shift, Davis," I told the center as he climbed over the wall. "Take ten. Drink water. Do not let your heart rate crash."We needed the primary tactical whiteboard. The small dry-erase marker in my pocket offered zero room to map out the aggressive neutral zone trap required for the second period.Leaving the roaring chaos of the ice, the concrete tunnel offered a stark contrast. The air grew stale, smelling of old rubber and freezing ammonia. My boots hit the floor in a steady, determined rhythm. Bypassing the visiting men's room, I headed straight for the designated girls' locker room near the training staff offices.Pushing the heavy swingi

119

JEREMIAH Smog hung low over the industrial park, turning the Los Angeles morning into a hazy, washed-out grey. Parking my SUV behind a shuttered warehouse two miles off campus, I killed the engine. The silence inside the cab felt heavy.A silver sedan pulled into the alley, tires crunching over broken glass and discarded gravel. It parked nose-to-nose with my truck.Briggs stepped out. He wore a nondescript black jacket and jeans, looking like a standard contractor, but the rigid way he carried his shoulders betrayed his military background. He walked to my open window and tossed a thick, unmarked manila folder onto my passenger seat."We maintained the perimeter," Briggs said, leaning his forearms against the door frame. "Two guys on the front entrance, one watching the alley fire escape. Your manager is safe inside the apartment.""Did you spot any movement?" I picked up the folder, unbending the metal clasp."Four distinct drive-bys between midnight and 4:00 AM." Briggs pointed at

120

ATHENA Deafening noise shook the rafters of the Ashford arena. Thousands of students packed the stands, pounding their feet against the metal bleachers in a synchronized, chaotic rhythm. Flashing neon signs and giant foam cutouts of Jeremiah’s face bobbed in the student section.Stepping onto the thin red carpet rolled out over center ice, the cold air bit through the fabric of my tailored black suit. I kept my posture rigid. The athletic director stood between the face-off circles, holding a microphone and a commemorative puck.Blades scraped hard against the fresh ice.Jeremiah stopped inches from the edge of the carpet, sending a shower of white snow dusting across the red fabric. He wore his dark blue jersey, the captain’s ‘C’ stitched over his chest. His massive frame blocked out the glare of the overhead stadium lights. Pushing his visor up, a wicked, heavy smirk curved his lips."You look nervous, Coach," he murmured, his voice dropping low enough to bypass the director's micr

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