Lahat ng Kabanata ng Hate Should Be A Hockey Term: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

CHASE**Three days later**Good. We’re not speaking. Makes everything cleaner. No more hallway standoffs. No bathroom ambushes. No kitchen collisions. I can pretend she doesn’t exist—even though she’s literally sleeping ten feet away through a thin wall and we share the same goddamn sink.Except pretending isn’t working.Every time I walk past her closed door, I hear the faint click of her keyboard. Every time I grab coffee from the kitchen, her empty mug is still in the sink—lipstick print on the rim even though she swears she doesn’t wear any. Every time I lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling, I replay the bonfire: the way her voice cracked when she talked about her mom, the way my smirk felt like acid in my mouth the second it left my lips, the way she walked away without looking back.*Did I really hurt you?*Yeah. I did.And the guilt has been gnawing at me like a bad hit to the boards—constant, low-grade pain I can’t shake.So when I pulled into the rink lot at 5 a

SLOANEThe Hartley mansion had been transformed into a full-scale frat disaster.What used to be pristine white marble and tasteful nautical accents was now drowning in red Solo cups, spilled beer, and the kind of bass that rattled your teeth. Speakers thumped from every corner of the pool deck. A keg stand was in full swing—blonde in a string bikini being hoisted upside down while three Titans players chanted her name like it was a war cry. Someone had dragged a beer pong table onto the patio, and the surface was already sticky with spilled drinks and regret.And Chase—shirtless, naturally—stood at the center of it all like some dark, golden king holding court. Water still dripped from his hair from an earlier cannonball. Girls circled him like moths. Guys slapped his back. He laughed—loud, easy, the sound carrying over the music—but his eyes kept flicking toward the French doors.Toward me.I stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed, debating whether turning around and retreati

SLOANEI was halfway through explaining why the Titans’ power play needed cleaner puck movement—less heroics, more quick touches—when Marcus’s phone buzzed against the lounge chair arm.He glanced at the screen, frowned faintly, then looked back at me.“Sorry. Team group chat. They’re doing something stupid with the beer pong table again.”“Sounds about right.”He stood, stretched his arms overhead—casual, unhurried. “I should probably go make sure no one drowns. You want to come? I promise to protect you from the chaos.”I laughed—small, surprised. “I think I’m good here. Safe zone, remember?”“Fair.” He hesitated, then gave me that easy, genuine smile. “This was nice, though. Talking to you. We should do it again sometime. Maybe without the pool-party soundtrack.”Something warm flickered in my chest—unexpected, soft. “Yeah. I’d like that.”Marcus nodded once—still smiling—then headed back toward the main crowd, disappearing into the noise and lights.I sat there a minute longer, wa

CHASEShe clicked the recorder off and I felt the shift immediately—like the temperature dropped another five degrees even though nothing had actually changed except the small red light between us going dark.“You don’t know,” I repeated.Sloane looked at her notebook like it might provide an escape route.It didn’t.“We should finish the interview,” she said.“That’s not an answer.”“It’s the only answer I have right now.”I leaned back against the cold bleacher behind me, coffee forgotten in my hands.“Turn it back on then,” I said. “Ask your questions.”She hesitated. Then reached for the recorder.Clicked it on.The red light blinked to life.“Let’s talk about your defensive-zone coverage,” she said, voice shifting back into that crisp, professional register. “Your plus-minus dropped significantly in the second half of the season. What happened?”And just like that, we were back in safe territory.Except nothing about this felt safe.“Injuries,” I said. “We lost our top defenseman

SLOANEFive minutes passed. Then ten.Dad’s typing was the only sound besides the low rattle of the basement AC unit and the occasional buzz of phones on silent.I tried to focus on my email. Failed.“You’re staring.”My eyes snapped up.Chase wasn’t looking at his phone anymore. He was looking at me—elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly, that infuriating half-smile already in place, the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me.“I’m not,” I said.“You are.”“I’m reading emails.”“You’ve been on the same one for ten minutes.”I locked my phone. “Maybe it’s a long email.”“Maybe you’re a terrible liar.”Dad didn’t look up. Earbuds in. Still typing. Oblivious.Chase stretched his arms overhead—slow, deliberate, every muscle in his torso catching the weak basement light filtering through the small high windows. Then he settled back, arms folded behind his head, watching me like I was a play he’d already read three steps ahead.“That offer still stands,” he said.“What