All Chapters of Hate Should Be A Hockey Term: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

102 Chapters

The Reception

CHASEFamily beach weekend.Everyone else asleep.We slipped out at 1:14 a.m.Outdoor shower—wood slats, open roof, ocean thundering fifty yards away.I pressed her face-first against the tile, hooked one leg high over my forearm, and thrust in deep.Water roaring full blast—masking every gasp, every wet slap of skin.I fucked her hard—deep—growling low against her ear:“Feel that? That’s me claiming you—right here—while our parents sleep fifty feet away.”She came clenching—biting her own forearm—silent scream ripping through her body.We kept going until the hot water ran cold, then walked back inside through separate doors—pretending nothing happened.Late-night horror flick.Almost empty theater.We took the back row.She climbed into my lap—facing the screen—skirt already rucked up.I pushed her panties aside.She sank down slow—taking me inch by inch—biting her lip to stay quiet.I gripped her hips—guided her in slow, rolling grinds—my hand under her skirt the whole time, finger

The Sound of Leaving

SLOANEHe left on a Sunday.August 30th. 7:14 a.m. I know the exact time because I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, pretending to read a chapter of *Beloved* for my summer reading list, while listening to every sound that traveled through the walls of this house like sonar.The zip of a duffel bag.The heavy thud of hockey equipment being dragged down the hallway.Victoria’s voice—bright, teary, proud—floating up from the kitchen. “I packed the cooler with the turkey wraps you like. And there’s a bag of those gummy bears in the front pocket. The sour ones.”“Thanks, Mom.” His voice. Low, casual, not a single crack in it. Like he wasn’t about to drive three hours north to Dalton University and leave me here in this house that still smelled like chlorine and sex and the worst summer of my life.The best summer of my life.I turned a page I hadn’t read. Stared at words that blurred into meaningless shapes.Dad’s voice now, jovial, slapping-his-back energy: “You’re gonna kill it up the

The Story I Can't Tell

SLOANEEastlake High School hadn’t changed. Same institutional brick. Same trophy case in the lobby, hockey pennants hanging like battle flags. Same cliques staking territorial claims in the parking lot: cheerleaders by the south entrance, stoners by the loading dock, debate kids clustered near the library doors like intellectual sentries.I used to love this place. Not in the gushing, rah-rah school spirit way, but in the way a writer loves a setting—for its texture, its contradictions, its quiet dramas played out in hallways and cafeterias. Senior year was supposed to be my coronation.Now? I walked through the front doors and felt nothing.AP Lit was a blur. Ms. Hargrove was the kind of teacher who treated every novel like a crime scene and every student like a suspect. She launched into the syllabus with missionary zeal: *Beloved, The Great Gatsby, Wuthering Heights, Lolita*—“We’ll be examining obsession as a narrative engine,” she said, pacing the front of the room with the ener

Traffic Cone

CHASEDalton University was everything the brochure promised and nothing I wanted.The campus looked like it had been designed by someone who’d never actually been to college—old stone buildings draped in ivy, quad stretching green under late-summer sun, the hockey facility gleaming like a cathedral to the sport I’d built my entire identity around. My dorm was in the athletic housing block: newer, nicer than standard, with a view of the practice rink from my third-floor window.Marcus listened exclusively to Luke Bryan and snored like a chainsaw being fed through a wood chipper—okay, only on the first night he snored. After that he mostly just breathed like he was auditioning for Darth Vader.**Sloane:** *First day was fine. Castillo praised my article. The one about you. Ironic.*I read it three times. Her voice—sharp, clipped, hiding something underneath—played in my head like an audio file I couldn’t delete.**Me:** *Famous by association. You’re welcome.***Sloane:** *You’re insuf

Chase

SLOANE**Chase:** *I'm lying here thinking about the pool house.*My breath caught. The pool house. His mouth on me. The blue light and the chlorine and the way he'd said my name like it was a prayer he didn't believe in yet.**Me:** *Which part?*Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared. A long pause that hummed with intention.**Chase:** *The part where you came on my tongue and your whole body shook and you said my name like it was the only word you remembered.*Heat flooded my face, my chest, the space between my thighs. I pressed my knees together under the blanket like that would help. It didn't.**Me:** *That's specific.***Chase:** *I think about it every night. Every single night, Sloane. I can still taste you.*I closed my eyes. My hand drifted to my stomach without my permission, fingers resting just below my navel, feeling the jump of my own pulse through skin.**Me:** *What else do you think about?***Chase:** *Your thighs on my shoulders. The sound you made when I slid

The Application

SLOANEThe newsroom smelled like burnt coffee, printer ink, and the particular kind of panic that only comes from chasing a deadline with thirty seconds left on the clock.It smelled like home.Third-period journalism had always been the one class that felt alive in a way I respected. AP rooms were full of people trying to impress colleges. The cafeteria was full of people trying to impress each other. The newsroom was full of people trying to hit deadlines before the final bell and pretending that wasn’t its own form of religion.Mr. Castillo stood at the whiteboard with a dry-erase marker in one hand and a stack of application packets in the other.“Editor-in-chief applications are open,” he announced.The room shifted.Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough. Backs straightening. Pens pausing. Eyes lifting from screens and notebooks and half-finished layouts.Editor-in-chief of *The Eastlake Ledger* wasn’t prom queen. It wasn’t varsity captain. It wasn’t the kind of title people

The Crisis Exercise

SLOANEThe newsroom smelled like burnt coffee and dread at 7:58 a.m. on a Saturday.Castillo had rearranged the desks into two separate command stations, each with a laptop, a stack of printouts, and a red folder marked CONFIDENTIAL in block letters that looked like they belonged on a government dossier rather than a high school journalism exercise. Two whiteboards flanked the room, wiped clean. The overhead fluorescents buzzed their institutional hum.Ava was already seated at the left station when I arrived. Pristine white sneakers. Hair in a low chignon. A monogrammed planner open beside her laptop with the day’s schedule already mapped in three colors of ink.I dropped into the right station. Bag on the floor. Notebook open. Pen uncapped.Castillo stood at the front of the room with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who was about to enjoy himself at our expense.“Good morning,” he said. “Here’s the scenario.”He flipped the whiteboard behind him to reveal a printed head

The Crown

SLOANEThe announcement came on a Friday.Not with fanfare. Not with a drumroll or a ceremony or even a proper all-staff meeting. Castillo simply walked into the newsroom at the start of third period, set his coffee on the desk, uncapped a dry-erase marker, and wrote a single name on the whiteboard.**EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: SLOANE WINTERS**Then he turned around.“Congratulations,” he said. “Now get to work.”The room erupted. Riley—who had somehow gotten wind of the decision and already texted me about it a minute ago—punched the air so hard she hit the doorframe. Mel made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cheer. Nora slow-clapped from the copy desk with genuine warmth. Even Chris, the perpetually anxious sophomore, looked up from his fact-checking spreadsheet and gave a single nod, which from him was the equivalent of a standing ovation.I sat very still.Not because I wasn’t happy. Somewhere beneath the shock and the sleep deprivation and the low-grade hum of anxiety that had become

The Credential

SLOANEThe Dalton University Athletics Department approved my press credential on a Wednesday.The email arrived at 2:14 p.m. during AP Calculus, which meant I read it under my desk while Mr. Kim droned on about the chain rule and pretended not to notice that half the class was on their phones.**Dear Ms. Winters,** We are pleased to approve your student press credential for the 2026-27 Dalton University Men’s Hockey season. Your credential provides access to the press box, post-game media availability, and pre-arranged interview sessions. Please review the attached media guidelines and code of conduct. We look forward to your coverage. **Best regards,** Dalton University Sports InformationI read it three times.Then I closed my phone, looked back at the whiteboard, and felt absolutely nothing about derivatives.---The first game I’d cover was November 8th. A Friday night home matchup against Boston College. Three weeks away. Enough time to prepare. Enough time to build the fr

The Drive

SLOANEThe first rule of covering Dalton was simple.Do not look like you’re going there for him.That rule started in my bedroom at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon with my closet open, three outfits on the bed, and Riley sitting cross-legged on my rug like a chaotic personal stylist with no license and too many opinions.“Not the black sweater,” she said, pointing with a mascara wand. “Too date-night. Also not the white blouse because if you spill coffee on yourself, you’ll look like a cautionary tale.”“It’s a hockey game, not a coronation.”“Exactly. So dress like a serious journalist who just happens to be devastatingly hot.”I stared at her.She grinned. “You know I’m right.”I went with dark jeans, ankle boots, a fitted charcoal turtleneck, and my camel coat over it all. Professional. Sharp. Neutral. Nothing Chase could look at and mistake for an invitation.Or so I told myself.Riley watched me pull my hair into a low knot and said, “You’re overthinking this.”“I’m not.”“You

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