Hate Should Be A Hockey Term のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

CHASEThe locker room reeked of sweat-soaked gear, fresh tape, and the cold bite of sharpened blades. Most of the Vancouver Titans had already peeled out after morning skate—laughing, slapping asses, scattering to hotels for whatever flavor of chaos they’d lined up: threesomes, one-night stands, or the rare genuine hookup. Me? I was still planted on the bench in front of my stall, elbows on knees, staring at the scuffed floor between my skates while the team doctor finished his lecture.Panic attack. Two words I never thought would apply to me.This summer was make-or-break. One last stretch of brutal, focused training before the real evaluations. Scouts had my name circled in red ink. I couldn’t afford to crack.The doctor finally packed up and left. I exhaled, slow and controlled.Coach Reynolds appeared in the doorway like he’d been waiting. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper buzz cut, eternal tracksuit that had seen more ice than most players. Tablet under one arm, coffee in the other.

SLOANEDinner had been a declaration of war. Now I was dragging my suitcases up the curved staircase to the second floor, Victoria trailing behind with apologies about “the best room available” and promises of “plenty of space for everyone.”The hallway stretched long and quiet, cream walls, dark wood floors, soft recessed lighting that made everything feel expensive and sterile.She stopped at the far end. “This one’s yours, Sloane. And Chase’s is right next door.”Of course it was.I pushed the door open.Massive bed with crisp white linens. Plush cream carpet. Floor-to-ceiling window framing a moonlit lake that looked Photoshopped. Chandelier dripping crystals. A sitting area with velvet armchairs. Walk-in closet bigger than my old bedroom.It should’ve felt like luxury. Instead it felt like a cage dressed in silk.I dropped my bags and stepped back into the hall just as Chase appeared at the opposite end, fresh from the shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping on

SLOANERevenge tasted like shirtless pettiness and the faint scent of cedar body wash.I was starving for anything that wasn’t Victoria’s artfully plated grilled salmon, so I’d claimed the kitchen while the happy couple was out “finalizing wedding details.” The massive marble island gleamed under recessed lights, air conditioning humming cold enough to justify my oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Comfort over cute. Always.I diced bell peppers with quick, precise strokes—thud, thud, thud—indie playlist spilling from my phone to fill the sterile silence. Halfway through an onion, the kitchen door swung open.Chase.Shirtless. Again. Blue practice jersey slung carelessly over one shoulder like a trophy he couldn’t be bothered to wear.He crossed straight to the fridge, yanked out a pre-made protein shake, shut the door with unnecessary force. “I need the stove. Chicken’s on the menu.”“Then wait your turn.”He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, biceps and pecs flexing in

CHASEThe pillow wall was hilarious in theory. In practice, it was a joke.Seven pillows stacked like a soft barricade down the middle of the queen bed—neutral territory in a war nobody had officially declared. I lay on my side staring at the fabric mound, listening to Sloane breathe on the other side. Slow. Steady. Not asleep yet.Dinner had been good—lobster, corn, bread still warm, wine that went down too easy. Sloane ate like she was proving a point, fork moving with precision. I caught her glancing at me twice. Once when I complimented the garlic butter (genuine). Once when Victoria asked if we were “getting along.” We both answered “fine” at the same time, then glared at each other like it was a personal betrayal.Now the room was dark except for moonlight slicing through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the duvet. The ocean outside breathed in slow, rhythmic crashes. I could hear her shifting every few minutes, sheets rustling like she was fighting the same restless

SLOANEThe fire started as a hesitant flicker against the black sand—then Chase stacked more driftwood and it roared to life, flames snapping high, throwing heat and gold light across the private stretch of beach. Victoria had spread an old wool blanket wide, ringed the pit with smooth stones, and set a cooler nearby: graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows skewered on long metal sticks, and a bottle of cabernet for the adults.Dad was already toasting his first marshmallow, turning it slowly over the coals, grinning like this was the most natural Saturday night in the world.Victoria sat cross-legged in an oversized cardigan, pouring wine into plastic cups. She handed one to Dad, then raised hers in a small, quiet toast.“To quiet nights,” she said softly. “And to us.”Dad clinked his cup against hers. “To us.”Chase sat on the far edge of the blanket—knees drawn up, forearms resting on them, staring into the fire like it owed him answers. He’d pulled on a black hoodie after th