All Chapters of Hate Should Be A Hockey Term: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

SLOANEFriday dinner in the basement was Dad’s idea, same as Thursday.“It’s a tradition,” he announced, hauling down the folding table with the enthusiasm of a man who’d spent forty-eight hours sweating through every shirt he owned and was determined to find the silver lining. “Summer heat, family together, makeshift setup. Character building.”“We have a perfectly good dining room,” Victoria said, following with a stack of plates.“Perfectly good and currently ninety-one degrees.”“Fair point.” She handed me the plates and went back upstairs for silverware.Chase came down last, carrying Victoria’s pasta pot—rigatoni, red sauce, sausage—and set it on the table without comment. He’d showered recently. Hair still slightly damp at the temples, curling at the ends.I noticed. I was trying very hard not to notice.We settled into the positions that had become habit without anyone saying so: Dad at the head, Victoria beside him, Chase and me across from each other. The industrial fans V

SLOANEThe sushi arrived in those flat cardboard boxes lined with wax paper, the kind that feel occasion-appropriate even when you’re eating at a kitchen island because the dining room is still recovering from the emotional fallout of a two-day heat wave.Victoria arranged everything—salmon rolls, edamame, miso in small ceramic cups—with the quiet efficiency that was starting to feel familiar rather than intimidating. Dad poured water. Brittany claimed the seat next to Victoria and slipped into the rhythm of the conversation with practiced ease, the kind of social fluency that looks effortless because it’s had years to develop.I was beginning to understand that Brittany Calloway—whose Instagram I’d scrolled through once upon a time and fallen in love with her curated aesthetics, the effortless way she carried herself—was now someone I hated with a clean, burning passion. What the hell does a model even know about hockey, bitch? But hey, bitch, don’t fuck with me.Chase sat at the end

BRITTANYWho the hell did that bitch think she was? Telling me—*me*—to book a hotel room like I was some random hookup crashing a family barbecue.I climbed the stairs to Chase’s room with the same deliberate calm I used before a big shoot. Heart hammering, sure, but face composed. He’d never been able to say no to me when I was already naked on his bed. Never.I unzipped the sundress as I walked. Let it fall open to the waist. Hair loose over one shoulder. The whole production—calculated, practiced, guaranteed.I lay back on his comforter, legs crossed at the ankle, waiting.The door opened.Chase froze in the doorway—still in those gray shorts, hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it downstairs—and looked at me the way he used to look at a bad call from a ref. Like he’d seen it coming and was already tired of being right.“Jesus, Brittany.”“I know.”“No. I mean—” He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. Didn’t come closer. Leaned against it instead. “This

SLOANE“So your solution is assault?” He took one deliberate step forward. I picked up the frying pan and tightened my grip on the handle, knuckles bleaching white. “What’s wrong, Winters? Can’t handle a word? Gotta resort to domestic violence?”I barked a laugh—sharp, ugly, unrecognizable even to me. “Don’t you *dare*. Don’t you *dare* stand there and play victim after you spent the last ten minutes being a smug, condescending prick.”He lunged.He wasn’t a brawler; he was an athlete. The movement was fluid, economical, explosive. He didn’t reach for the pan—he reached for *me*. One hand clamped around my right wrist like a vice, twisting just enough to send white-hot sparks up my forearm. His other palm slammed flat against the island beside my hip, caging me between granite and two hundred pounds of furious muscle.“Let go,” I hissed, yanking against him. Useless.“Or what?” He leaned in until our noses almost touched, breath hot and ragged against my cheek. “Gonna find a rolling p

CHASEThe leftover rigatoni was congealing into a sad, reddish clump in its Tupperware container. It was a metaphor for the entire evening. For the entire week, really.“Just put the lid on it,” Sloane said, her voice tight with the kind of irritation that usually preceded a volcanic eruption. “You’re letting the cold air out.”“I’m trying to get the last meatball,” I said, forking it out of the container. “It’s a tragedy of food waste to leave it behind.”“It’s a tragedy of basic hygiene to hover over the communal leftovers like a vulture.”I popped the meatball in my mouth. Chewed slowly. Made eye contact. “It’s a good meatball.”Her jaw tightened. A tell. I’d cataloged all of them over the past few weeks. The slight flex in her jaw meant she was moving from ‘annoyed’ to ‘actively plotting my demise.’“Do you ever close anything properly?” she asked, gesturing to the pantry door I’d left slightly ajar after grabbing a bag of chips. “Or is that a Hartley family trait? Leaving things