Todos los capítulos de My Pathetic Obsession With The Hockey Boy : Capítulo 51 - Capítulo 60

CherylThe narrow, drafty bedroom of my off-campus apartment was suffocatingly quiet, save for the hum of the small space heater rattling against the floorboards.I sat at my desk with my hands wrapped around a mug of stale tea, staring at the glowing screen of my laptop where Director Vance’s email from Capital Sports Network remained open. The blue cursor blinked rhythmically in the empty reply box, a tiny, mechanical heartbeat demanding an answer.Every single nerve in my body felt raw, exposed, and bruised from the endless barrage of the past forty-eight hours.The campus rumors had reduced me to a predatory clout-chasing leech. Professor Hayes and the faculty board were sharpening their knives for Thursday's editorial hearing. Celeste had stood in her pristine bedroom and casually confessed to strangling six months of my hard work, relying on the fact that I lacked the digital evidence to prove her sabotage. And my parents, the two people who were supposed to offer sanctuary when

CherylThe heavy industrial door of the auxiliary training facility clicked shut, leaving me standing alone on the frost-covered concrete loading dock.Coach Whiteman’s parting words hung in the crisp morning air like a physical anchor, steadying the wild, erratic beating of my heart. For weeks, the suffocating narrative constructed by Celeste, the cold dismissal of the faculty board, and the crushing betrayal of my own parents had conspired to convince me that I was entirely powerless. Every door I tried to open had been jammed from the inside; every effort I made to establish a legitimate professional identity had been systematically choked out by a web of privilege and malicious sabotage.Yet, as I stared down at the confirmation screen of my phone, the raw, aching paralysis that had crippled me all night began to recede.Capital Sports Network had not asked for my parents' approval. They hadn't checked the underground campus forums or consulted Professor Hayes about my editorial s

Cheryl"He's just exhausted, Coach," I said, the words falling out of my mouth before my brain could stop them. "He spent six hours on the ice yesterday doing individual shooting drills, and he stayed up all night going over game film for Thursday's scout."Coach Whiteman’s sharp, grey eyes remained locked on my face for three agonizing seconds. He didn't look entirely convinced, but the smooth, unhesitating way I delivered the lie gave him just enough pause to let the tension drop a single inch.Whiteman let out a heavy, gravelly sigh, shaking his head as he tapped his clipboard against his thigh. "You're pushing yourself into the ground, Miller. I'm taking you off the morning skate roster today. Go back to your room, get some food, and if you aren't looking human by tomorrow's team meeting, I'm putting you on mandatory bench protocol."Carlson didn't argue. He gave a single, rigid nod, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles beneath his ears were white. "Thanks, Coach."Whiteman gave

CherylThe icy wind swept down the narrow, brick-lined alleyway, carrying the sharp, synthetic bitterness that still lingered on the fabric of Carlson’s hoodie. His forehead remained rested against my shoulder, his massive, broad frame shuddering with silent, heavy gasps as eighteen years of buried terror spilled into the freezing morning air.The sheer weight of his confession hung between us like a physical fog, dark, suffocating, and terrifyingly clear. I stood motionless on the frost-dusted pavement, my gloved hands still buried in the lapels of his jacket, my fingers anchoring him to the earth while my own mind spun out of control.Richard Miller.The name no longer belonged to a distant, legendary sports figure whose financial donations bought his son private ice time and premier equipment. It belonged to an absolute monster. A man who looked at his own twelve-year-old child sitting on a bench with a broken bone and locked the car doors to keep him from receiving medical attenti

CarlsonThe shadows inside my dorm room were long, dark, and ice-cold.I sat on the edge of my narrow twin mattress, my heavy wool blanket wrapped loosely around my shoulders, staring blankly at the bare floorboards between my feet. The chemical jitter beneath my skin was beginning its steady, sickening decline, leaving behind a hollow, metallic aftertaste in my mouth and a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes.Every muscle in my legs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive, as if the nerves were slowly drowning in stagnant water.On the desk behind me, the small steel puck rested on top of the note I had written hours ago, a desperate, pathetic goodbye letter I had drafted when I thought my knees were going to give out during morning skate.Then, my phone buzzed against the nightstand.It wasn't a call from Richard checking my face-off analytics, nor was it a text from Whiteman regarding tomorrow’s bench protocol. It was a sharp, single vibration, a notification alert from a burner acc