“Yes, Myles, what’s the answer?”
I blinked, yanked out of my trance by the teacher’s voice. The whole class turned toward me, eyes wide, some barely stifling laughter. I stood up, trying to shake the fog from my mind. “Sir… could you repeat the question?” “Repeat the question?” He raised an eyebrow. “Caught you smiling. Figured you knew the answer.” If only class made me smile that much. But no, my smile was all because of the little chat I had with Coach Daniel earlier. "I had a nap and realized I wasn’t fair to you. There’s a way to get you back on the team, but it’ll cost you your dignity." That “dignity” translated into being the water boy during training, just so I could hold on to a sliver of a chance of rejoining the team. It was humiliating, but at least it was something. “Sir, I have no idea.” “The answer is ‘cell,’” a soft voice offered from behind. “The smallest unit of life.” Natalie. My brows furrowed as I turned to see her offering a small, sympathetic smile. I nodded in thanks. The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Get your biology textbook out and focus, Astor.” “Yes, sir.” "Oh my god..." "What is that? How did he get that amount?" The scattered dollar notes dropping out of my bag laid on the table. My heart pounded in my chest as I mentally calculated how many wads that could be arranged in. How did it get in my bag? I swallowed, raising my head to meet Jade's own widened eyes. I had at least ten thousand in my bag and had no clue how it got there. Holy shit, my heart thumped. "Myles." The teacher glared down at the notes. "Follow me to my office, now." I began to shove the notes in. *** "He took the bag from me, said he was going to inquire if that amount was missing from anyone in the school," I say to Jade, the cooler of water hanging from my shoulders, watching the players in the rink. "Then he might go to the police." It was making rounds in the school, everyone with their own tale of how a scholarship student had ten thousand in his bag. Christ, I could have checked before I left. But I was already running late; it never crossed my mind. "I can't say I believe you not knowing how the money got in your bag," Jade said, arranging the strap of the cooler. "I'm just saying, what will you do with the money if it's given back to you?" I stayed quiet. She continued, "So there's this little weed business..." "Christ, Jade..." "What?" she demanded. "I don't care if the money isn't from a good source. Just make sure you multiply that dough." I laughed, shaking my head. "Thanks for being here. You and Leo, I don't know what I'd do without you guys." As if on cue, from the far end of the rink, Leo waved while handing a player a bottle of water. "Pssh, shove it back in. I'll do anything to have a share of that bill. Just kidding, just kidding." Her pressed lips told me she was absolutely not kidding. "Hey," one of the players called, "Water!" And she ran off, and immediately after, *he* entered. The rink burst into a round of applause as he caught the stick thrown at him. My little laughter died, the money temporarily forgotten as rage took over. It wasn’t my jersey he wore—it was a new one, tailored to perfection. Of course, he wouldn’t wear something as “common” as a team jersey. I’d bet his father bought him his spot on the team. Yes, he was good in the last match, which was the first Blizzard Breakers had won against the Whales. It could just be luck—no one rich could be *that* good. Not when they knew they could just buy their way in. Twenty minutes into training, I scratched my prior thoughts. Okay, he was good. *More than good,* you mean, my brain taunted. Still, it wasn't fair. And I was going to give a thousand water bottles just to get my position back. *Fucker.* And just then, Coach blew the whistle for halftime. Which meant... "Get the water flowing." From the corner of my eyes, I could see Jade and Leo walking toward the thirsty teams. Sighing, I made my way toward them, trying to dodge George, but of course, it was futile. "Hey, water boy." He waved his hand, and when I turned, he raised a brow. "What part of 'we are thirsty' don't you understand?" My gaze dropped to the unopened bottle of water beside him, and back to his face, and his smirk widened. Taking another deep breath and hoping whatever Coach had in mind worked, I made my way to him, grabbing a bottle of water. I handed him the water, saying nothing. "Woah," he chuckled, looking around him as if hoping people were watching. Of course, they were. "Why so mad?" I stayed quiet. "Answer the question, Myles. Why so mad?" "I'm not mad." It came out as a snap. I blinked back my anger. "I'm not mad. Just take your water." He pouted, staring down at the water. "Not mad? Then beg me to take it." There were chuckles, and also, "Dude, what's your problem? Let him be." Leo stepped between us, handing George a bottled water. "Here, please take it." George seemed amused. "I don't want the plea from this bitch." He looked at me again. "I want it from *this* bitch." Well, then, fuck this. I dropped the flask on the rink and began to walk away. I was fucked anyway; nothing I'd do would matter. Murmurs of surprise filled the air, which soon turned to roars. I hadn't taken more than five steps when I was yanked back by my hair and held, unable to move. George appeared before me, laughing and shaking his head in disbelief as he unscrewed a bottle. "Too big to beg? Wow, such fucking audacity, huh?" "I just wanna leave." "Well, you'll leave, alright." The water came down on my head, drenching my hair and streaming across my face. "When I say beg," he flung the empty bottle back, "you fucking beg." The water blurred my sight, but instead of the rage that led to tears back in junior high, I just felt empty. "Alright then," I muttered, trying to wriggle myself free from his crew's hold. "If you'll just let me go now." Once again, his gaze darkened, and soon a folded fist came down hard on my stomach, sending pain and the rage I thought was nonexistent into me. Hearing them laugh made it boil. So without thinking of the repercussions, I punched back—hard—hitting the side of his neck. Seeing him double over in pain sent a thrill running through me. Holy shit, I did that! I just fucking did that! Now to get the fuck out of this place before I was handled like a bitch. I turned around in a flash, only to knock into another frame, and he grabbed my hand. But adrenaline still rushing, I punched hard again, my fist landing on a chin made of iron. Pain shot into my knuckles, and I clutched my throbbing wrist, raising my face up to stare into Angry. Grey. Eyes. I froze. It wasn’t George. It wasn’t one of his lackeys. Oh shit. It was him. Tristan Medici. My chest tightened. I’d just punched Tristan Medici. Fuck...I dropped my gaze to my still throbbing fingers, feeling Coach's eyes on my face. It was the day after the brawl at the rink, and I hadn't even fully entered the school gate before Coach's voice came over the speakers, demanding to see me in his office. "...We had a deal, Myles. What were you thinking?!" I had no clue, but I knew what I thought after it all happened: run! And I did—taking my bag and the strange money home after the biology teacher discovered no one else's was missing. Things to worry about just kept multiplying. Now Coach stood up straight. "All you had to do was lay low." "Which I did." "That wasn’t laying low, Myles." "He fucking came at me!" When Coach said nothing, I quickly toned down my voice. "I know you're trying to help, but goddammit, it gets hard when you're punched in the midsection." Coach sighed and sat down. "I understand." He gestured for me to sit down too, but I didn’t. "That’s why I said it’s going to be hard. George doesn’t want y
**TRISTAN** My phone buzzed. One new message. *"You're sick… Use that money to get your head checked."* And right below it: *"This person is not contactable."* I pinched the bridge of my nose, holding back a chuckle as the coach stood in front of me. There was something about the brown-haired rascal that amused me—something I hadn’t quite figured out yet. Maybe it was the way he overflowed with emotion. *"You hate emotions."* Maybe. But they suited him—better than those coffee-brown eyes or the slight athletic physique hidden beneath oversized hoodies. *"He hates you."* Why should I care? At first, all I felt was guilt. The morning after, when I placed a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, I realized—his first time. And I hadn't even noticed. It was no coincidence he was the first I laid my eyes on when I walked into the school that evening. The brunette surrounded by friends and staring at the wall. Habits died hard, so once again, like the life I kept a secret from e
**MYLES**I gripped the marble sink, glaring at my reflection. The image of his smug smile wouldn’t leave my head. He’d looked at me like I was some kind of snack. *Snack?* Was that the best I could come up with? Christ, Myles. What the hell have you done?I staggered back until I hit the wall, sliding down to the floor. Never in a million years would I have guessed he was the one. Now that I knew—and had a clue where the money came from—there was only one option left: leave the country.I clutched my hair, frustration boiling inside. But that wasn’t possible. The next choice? Return the money and tell the bastard to back off. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to face him yet.A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts, followed by my mum’s voice. “Myles, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting strange.” I raised my head, catching my pale reflection again. “Yeah... I’ll be out in a minute,” I called back, the words sounding distant even to me. There was a long silence befo
Was I really doing this? I stared at the entrance wide-eyed, hoping it stayed this quiet, stayed this still while I deciphered my thoughts. That was too much to ask. "Hey!" Diego yelled from where he was pressed to his stomach by the men on top of him. "That's you fucking daydreaming again?" One of the men palmed him hard against the back of his head. "Can you just shut the fuck up for once in your life?" Their words were like echoes, shadows. Ones I wished would just cease existing.The old man slowly limped up to me while I struggled with my thoughts, and I wasn’t aware until he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Myles, I hate to tell you this, but stalling won’t help you people." "I'm serious," I insisted, then swallowed when he raised a brow at me. "Wait here," I announced, sprinting back into the room. Hurling the bed up was quick, but at the first sight of the money, I froze again, desperately dragging my hands through my hair. One feel of that money, and I'd have a le
My fingers dug into the edge of the table, knuckles white, as I leaned in. "All I ask is for a chance to prove myself, and you won’t fucking let me!" "Mind your language, Myles Astor," Coach Daniel snapped, his gaze flicking up briefly. The words were cold, indifferent. Like I was some kid throwing a tantrum. Outside the office, cheers roared from the party in full swing. Each burst of laughter and clinking glass grated against me, a reminder that while my life was falling apart, everyone else was having the time of theirs. They were celebrating *him*—Tristan Medici, the golden boy with the golden ticket, stepping right into my spot, *my fucking spot*, on the team. My chest tightened. I wasn’t breathing. "Please." My voice cracked, more fragile than I wanted it to be. I hated myself for it. I took a step closer to his desk, my hand resting on the edge for support. "At least let me play the next match." The next match meant everything. NHL scouts would be there, watching, eval
The shrill sound of my alarm clock wasn’t what jolted me awake. It was the yelling. My stepfather’s voice cutting through the walls. I stared up at the ceiling, straining to hear my mom’s voice fighting back, but it never came. It never will.. “If this was toast, the whole of America would be fucking dead!” His voice boomed again. I sighed, sitting up in bed. Pain shot from my hips and... lower down, a raw reminder of last night. It wasn't a dream. It happened. *“Changing the list?” The phone camera clicked. “You little devil.”* “Listen, it’s not what you think,” I had said, heart pounding. “Oh, I know *exactly* what I think.” His voice dripped with amusement. Shit. “But I’ll keep my mouth shut," he whispered, stepping closer, "if you fuck me." I shook my head, the memories flooding back with nauseating clarity. The worst part was I didn’t even know who he was. Yet, I had agreed. “Myles?” My mom’s voice, soft and hesitant, floated through the door. “You’re late for school