1. ASPEN

Aspen

I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding as the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the game.

We lost. We fucking lost the game to the Dynamos.

The arena is electric with cheers, none of them for us. My teammates shuffle toward the bench in silence, heads low, their sticks dragging across the ice. I rip off my helmet and rake a hand through my damp hair, my chest heaving with frustration. I stay where I am at center ice, frozen, staring at the scoreboard. Three points. That’s all it took to rip the game from us.

“Jackson!” Coach’s voice booms, dragging me back to reality. He’s already storming onto the ice, his face red with anger. “Get over here. Now.”

I skate toward him reluctantly, my stomach twisting. The man looks like he’s seconds away from snapping his clipboard in half.

“What the hell was that out there?” he barks, jabbing a finger toward the empty net. “You call that captain material? You call that leading a team?”

“I—”

“Don’t. I don’t want to hear excuses.” He paces in front of me, his voice rising with every word. “You had one job, Jackson. One. Job. And you blew it. You think the scouts want to see that? You think they’ll hand you an NHL contract for this crap?”

I bite back the urge to defend myself. He’s not wrong. None of it is wrong. I had been distracted back there on the rink, thinking about how to raise money for my sister's surgery. But I knew none of them would give a shit if I told them so yeah, I had to carry my cross as the eldest sibling and make sure not to fail my family.

“Get off the ice,” Coach snaps. “All of you. Locker room. Now.”

The team trudges off, but I don’t move. I can’t—not yet. That’s when I see him. Kelly Blackwell, number 17 for the Dynamos, gliding toward me with that stupid, cocky grin I’ve hated since junior hockey.

“Rough game, Jackson,” he says, stopping just close enough to make sure I hear every word. “Guess the Phoenix Frost isn’t so hot after all.”

The crowd’s cheers fade into background noise. All I can see is Kelly, his smirk daring me to make a move.

“Walk away, Blackwell,” I growl, my fists already curling.

“Why? This is tradition, isn’t it?” He smirks, leaning on his stick. “You lose. I win. I rub it in. It’s what we do.”

He chuckles, and something inside me snaps. My gloves hit the ice before I even think. I swing, my fist connecting with his jaw in a satisfying crack.

Kelly stumbles back, shock flashing across his face for a split second before he recovers. “Nice shot,” he says, rubbing his jaw as his grin widens. “But that won’t change the scoreboard, captain.”

The refs skate over, shoving us apart, but I can still feel the heat of his gaze, that smirk burning in my mind as they pull him back toward his team.

“See you at the next round,” Kelly calls, his voice dripping with mockery. And then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the rink, anger simmering just below the surface.

God, I hate him.

The sound of Kelly’s voice still echoes in my head as I stand there, fists clenched, watching him walk away with that damn smirk plastered on his face. I can feel the anger crawling up my spine, but what really gets me, what burns the most, is that this wasn’t just some petty rivalry.

This thing—this hatred—it goes way deeper than tonight.

Our rivalry didn’t start over a stupid play or a missed shot. It started with something far worse. I can still remember the locker room check like it was yesterday. We were getting ready for the biggest game of the season, the one that could make or break our futures. Coaches, scouts, everyone was watching. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any more intense, they found something in my bag.

Illegal substances.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. I hadn't touched anything like that. But when they pulled me aside and I saw the coach’s eyes narrow, the whispers started. No one believed me—not at first. Not with my reputation already on edge. I was the "hot-headed kid," the one who played too emotionally, the one whose temper often got the best of him.

I wasn’t the type of player who needed to cheat to win. But the rumors started anyway, and that was enough to make my world feel like it was falling apart.

Four days passed. Four days of my name being dragged through the mud, four days of me fighting to prove my innocence. Then one of my teammates finally stepped up. It was Brad, a quiet guy who didn’t say much but kept his eyes open. He pulled me aside after practice and said he’d seen everything.

“I saw Kelly, Jackson,” he told me in a low voice. “He planted those drugs in your bag before the check. I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t just sit there and let it happen.”

I stared at him, disbelief filling my chest, the rage creeping in with a slow burn. My heart pounded in my ears as the truth started to sink in. Kelly. Kelly had done this to me. He had ruined everything, and for what? To make me look like a cheater? To take me down and secure his own place at the top?

Brad had gone straight to Coach after the incident. He told him everything. I didn’t know how I’d missed it, but it had been Kelly all along. Kelly, with his golden-boy charm and his smirk that could slice through glass, had orchestrated the whole damn thing.

And even though Brad reported it, even though I was cleared of any wrongdoing, nothing happened to Kelly. Nothing. He kept on as the team’s star player, the one the coach would do anything to protect. The one with the golden touch.

I couldn’t prove it, but I knew what happened. Kelly’s dad was a big shot, some rich businessman who’d probably written a blank check to the coach to keep him quiet. That’s how it worked. Kelly was untouchable, a golden boy with a father who could buy silence.

That’s when the rivalry started—the real one. The one that burned deep, the one that wasn’t about winning or losing, but about proving that I was better than him, no matter how many tricks he played.

Now, here we are again, and nothing’s changed. His taunts, that damn grin, they still make my blood boil. But this time, I’m not going to let it destroy me. I’m not going to let him win again.

By the time I get to the locker room I find it empty except for a few of the guys, sitting in silence, their heads hung low as they remove their gear. The atmosphere is thick with disappointment and exhaustion. The sound of my skates cutting against the ice still echoes in my mind.

I rip off my jersey and throw it into my locker, the fabric slapping against the metal. My fingers tremble as I undo the straps of my pads, the tension in my body refusing to release. I should be angry, maybe even more than I already am, but there’s something deeper, something I can’t shake. The loss isn’t just about hockey anymore. It’s about everything else—the weight of expectations, the pressure to lead this team when I can barely keep my own life together.

The door to the locker room creaks open behind me, and I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. Our Defense man and good friend.

“Jackson,” Nathan’s voice cuts through the silence, low and cautious. “You good?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the metal locker, watching the way the fluorescent lights make my features seem harsher than usual. For a second, I wonder if I even recognize myself anymore.

Nathan steps closer, his boots making a soft sound on the floor. He’s always been the quiet one, the one who observes everything but never really says much. But I know he gets it. He gets me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, exhaling sharply. “Nothing to talk about. We lost. I fucked up.”

Nathan doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck, steady and unwavering. It’s not pity, but understanding. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

I let out a bitter laugh, spinning around to face him. “It was my fault. I’m the damn captain. I should have been better.” My hands curl into fists, frustration bubbling up again. “I let my head get in the way of the game, and now we’re paying for it.”

Nathan takes a step forward, eyes sharp. “You’re not the only one out there. We all have to take responsibility. But that doesn’t mean you carry all of it on your own.”

I want to tell him to stop. To tell him that he doesn’t get it—that none of them do. But I bite my tongue, the words caught somewhere deep in my throat. Instead, I let the silence hang in the air, thick and heavy.

Finally, Nathan clears his throat. “You’ll get another chance. We all will.”

The words don’t bring me much comfort, but I nod anyway. We both know the truth—one loss doesn’t define a season, but it sure as hell feels like it could.

I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I head toward the door, my head still reeling from the game, from the anger burning just below the surface. As I step into the hallway, I hear Coach’s voice again, barking orders to the assistant coaches. I know I’m not the only one he’s disappointed in, but for some reason, it feels like all of it is aimed directly at me.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix this, but I’m damn sure I will. I can’t afford to let Kelly Blackwell, or anyone else for that matter, think they’ve won.

The team might have lost tonight, but I’m not giving up on them. Not yet.

Instead of heading for my dorm like I would after we lost a game, I make my way out of the hostel, intending I needed a drink or two to calm myself down.

Unlike some golden boys, I had a hell of a lot more on my plate. My baby sister's face flashes on my mind, and the weight of her surgery looming over me makes my chest tighten. I can’t afford to fail her, too. Hockey may have been my escape, my ticket out, but right now, it feels like just another distraction from the real pressure. I need to get my head straight if I'm going to help her.

My sister is one of my most prized possessions, and I’m not fucking losing her.

So with my mind made up, I turn back to the hostel, with a light bulb lighting in my head.