Chapter 2 FACE OFF
Morning sunlight pushes through the filthy homeroom windows, thick and golden, sticking to my skin. I shove the door open with my shoulder my jacket’s still caught on one arm and my phone vibrates before I’ve even got the sleeve free.
Elite Program Group Chat
Coach: Everyone reports by noon. One rule leave your egos at home.
Jay: Impossible.
Jack: Too late.
I snort, flick the screen off, and cram my phone into my pocket. Ten seconds. That’s all it takes for Jack to take a swing.
The hallway’s roaring lockers bang, sneakers squeal, voices ricochet around the cinder blocks.
The usual crowd splits into their usual clumps: jocks hogging the water fountain, theater kids stretched across the bench, freshmen clinging to their notebooks like muggers are lurking around every corner. I keep my gaze low and head for the front row.
“Sick game yesterday, Rinaldi,” someone mutters as I walk past Sam, gnawing on his pen like maybe he’ll crush it if he tries hard enough.
I nod and move on. Can’t get caught up. No time for it.
The bell cuts through the noise just as Mrs. Weber sweeps in, heels sharp, arms full of packets. “Settle down. Luca, you know the drill, pass these out.”
Heads turn my way. On the ice, most of these kids don’t notice me. Jack’s the center. But in here, things shift. In here, I’m the one they watch.
I grab the packets and start making my rounds.
“Casey.”
“Sam.”
“Priya.”
My voice is steady, clipped, until I reach Jack Carter.
He’s sprawled in his chair, legs halfway into the next row, one arm slung over the back, grinning waiting for me. His eyes snap up to meet mine.
I stall. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
“Go ahead, Luca,” Mrs. Weber says.
And I do, but the words roll out in Dad’s accent, heavy and thick. “Carterr, Jack.”
That ‘r’ comes out huge and stubborn can’t stop it.
Jack tips his head back and bursts out laughing, big and wild, dragging the whole class with him. “Mama mia!” Both hands thrown up in fake opera, totally playing it up. “Gorgeous. Present. Emotionally checked out, but present.”
Heat creeps up my neck. Everyone’s looking now. Laughter starts slipping around the room. I drop his packet a little harder than I need to.
“Knock it off,” I mumble.
But I’m moving, voice flat again. “Mia. Tyler. Grace.” One packet after another, face fixed and neutral. The laughter doesn’t budge. It lingers. I memorize every snicker.
Mrs. Weber sighs. “Mr. Carter. Enough.”
By the time I finish and take my seat, my neck’s burning. I straighten my jacket, line up my pen just so. I make damn sure not to look at Jack.
Not because I’m not pissed I’m boiling but because I know I’d catch his eye and see that grin, exactly like nothing happened.
That’s what stings. Not the joke. The way he already moved on.
When class ends, the room empties fast. I’m almost to the hallway when Jack materializes at my side, step-for-step, like we’ve done this a hundred times.
“Hey.”
I keep walking.
“I wasn’t laughing at you.” He drops his voice. “I actually thought it sounded… nice.”
I stop. Someone shoulders past me. I barely feel it. I just look at him.
Jack stands there, awkward all of a sudden hands jammed in his pockets, grin gone, eyes flicking sideways. He looks… real, for once.
“You really suck at compliments,” I tell him.
He cracks a nervous laugh and rubs his neck. “Yeah, I know.”
We keep going. Something inside me knocks loose, like the ice just shifted. I leave it be.
We find our crew in the back desks smushed into a rough circle, turning homeroom into a huddle like always. Jack sprawls in the middle, like he’s sliding onto the bench mid-period hard to shake the captain thing, even here.
“All right, boys,” Jack says, slapping the packet into his palm. “Four leadership questions—Coach says tie it to hockey. Luca, class prez, keep us moving.”
I sit across, arms folded tight. “You’re captain try not to make it a stand-up routine.”
Sam snickers and spins his pen. Liam slouches into his hoodie. Jay cracks his knuckles, Mendoza leans in, already tracking.
Jack grins over. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Prez.”
We start. The first question is easy: talk authoritarian versus democratic leadership when things get tense.
“Authoritarian wins out on the ice,” Jay goes right away. “If we’re trailing, it’s not time for a group vote.”
Liam’s with him. “Exactly. One voice. Captain. No committee near the net.”
Mendoza goes the other way. “But democratic gets buy-in. Guys run the play because they were part of it.”
Sam rolls his eyes, pen clicking. “Doesn’t matter if we’re coming apart.”
I tap the sheet. “Both have their place. Authoritarian’s for last minutes Jack shouting on a power play. Democratic is review, post-game. The best captains switch up.”
Jack catches my eye. “So—listen more, right?”
“I’m saying you already do. When it counts.” And yeah, it sounds more honest than I planned. I clear my throat. “Next.”
Second and third questions blur together.more arguments, more jokes, paper rustling everywhere.
Jack keeps everyone sharp, lobbing out examples, steering us around fights without steamrolling.
He does this. The guys spark off him. Even when Sam pushes back, Jack redirects, no problem. He keeps the group moving.
I catch myself just watching him. He keeps people close, keeps them in the game. I do the organizing, the checking lists. Jack does the pulse.
Last question: What’s your leadership growth goal for the year? Right as we get there, Jack’s phone vibrates, rattles across the desk.
He looks down, smile gone in a flash. Jaw tight. Whatever hits, it hits hard. He’s out of his chair so fast it screeches.
“Gotta take this,” he says, voice all gravel. He’s already gone out the door, phone up, shoulders hunched before anyone else stirs.
The air shifts. Quiet now.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Everything cool?”
“Probably his dad,” Liam mutters.
“Or coach riding him again,” Jay says.
Mendoza watches the door. I don’t say anything. My stomach’s knotted and uneasy, but I sit with it.
Jack’s back a couple minutes later, fresh smile, back to his usual self. Like nothing happened.
“Miss me?” He plops down, bumps my elbow. “Yo, Rinaldi, didn’t know you spoke fluent Mario Kart.”
Everyone cracks up Sam barks, Jay shakes his head, Mendoza gives in.
But I keep watching. Even when he’s playing, there’s something underneath, sharp and shielded.
I slouch in my seat. “Keep dodging, Carter. Write your growth goal, for once.”
For a second, he looks at me, really looks, eyes serious under the grin.
“Yeah,” he says, softer. Maybe just to me. “I’ll put something real.”
He jots, puts his mask back on, keeps the group going.
But I’m still thinking about that look the way he held his shoulders when nobody was around. I think he knows I noticed. And I doubt he thinks I’ll forget.
At home, dinner hits before the door does garlic, onion, something bubbling low on the stove. Mamma’s been going for hours. She’s nervous-cooking, I know it.
I toe off my shoes. “Mamma.”
“In here.”
She’s organizing containers on the counter, lids off, steam rising. She’s folding a towel stalling for time.
“How was school?” She doesn’t even look at me.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Jack teased my accent again.”
Her head snaps around spoon in hand. “Which one is Jack?”
“The one who never shuts up.”
She almost grins. “Your father used to say the loud ones have the most to hide.”
I just sit at the table. She puts food in front of me like she always does: no asking if I’m hungry she knows.
“Eat. After, sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’ll be tired at midnight. Coach doesn’t care if you’re tired rest now, while you can.”
So I eat. She stands watch, arms crossed, holding up her part of the kitchen.
“You’ll call me. Every week.”
“Every week is a lot.”
“Every week.” Not a suggestion.
“Fine. Every week.”
She slides food into containers, fitting them tight in the cooler. “This one’s for the bus. This one, share. Don’t eat both by yourself like a starving wolf.”
“Share with who?”
“Your teammates. Make friends, Luca. Real ones. Not just—” she waves the spoon, “rivals.”
“I have friends.”
“You have Sam, who is scared of you, and that boy who calls you ‘accountant.’ That’s not the same as friends.”
I don’t answer.
She sits across and her voice turns soft. “Six months is a long time to be inside your own head. You understand?”
“I understand hockey.”
She smiles, tired and fond. “I know you understand hockey. I’m asking if you understand people.”
I look down at my plate. “I’m trying.”
“Good.” She lays her hand on my cheek rough, warm, kitchen-scents lingering. “Rest. I’ll wake you.”
I listen. I go lie down, half on my packed bag and the next thing I know, I’m out harder than I planned. Gray afternoon light through the blinds, sleep thick and heavy.
When I wake again, her hand’s on my shoulder, the sky deeper blue day rolling to night.
“Up. Time to go.”
I rolled out of bed, took a quick shower, and by the time I reached for my bag, it was all packed and ready to go.
She walks me to the door, hands me the cooler last second, holding tight like she doesn’t want to let go just yet.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
“Luca.” She tugs my sleeve before I’m gone. “Be someone people want on their team. Not just someone who wins.”
I nod. It’s all I can do.
Outside, the cold’s sharper dry air, streetlights blinking on faint and far. I get to the lot early. A few guys are already there; I lean against the van, hands deep in my pockets, watching clouds thicken snow coming.
Jack’s missing. Of course.
Coach checks his watch, impatient. “Where’s Carter?”
“Probably signing autographs,” someone mutters.
Jack finally rushes up windblown, coffee in one hand, bag dragging. “Sorry... hallway traffic jam. You get it.”
He swings in next to me the only open seat. Naturally.
“So, Rinaldi. King of the classroom now?”
“Somebody has to care.”
He laughs, easy. “Hey, respect. That accent, though highlight of my day.”
My jaw tightens. “Focus on your own game.”
He shrugs, bumps my shoulder. “You know, if you relaxed—”
The driver takes the ramp a bit too fast.
The van tilts, just enough. Jack’s just taking a sip. His arm jerks, and the mug springs loose lid flies, coffee splashes out, dark and hot and fast, straight across my leg. It burns right through the jeans stings so fast I barely get a breath.
The mug skitters away.
Silence for a second. Then Jack’s hands, fluttering up, useless, hovering like he wants to help but knows better. “Shit—oh my god, I’m—”
I don’t raise my voice.
“Move your hands,” I say quietly, words slow and sharp.
He does.
I peel the denim up, jaw set, breathing through my nose. The whole van’s gone quiet. Jay starts to say something, but chokes it off.
Coach calls from the front, “Problem?”
“Jack’s coffee.” My voice stays cool, flat—worse than if I was yelling. “All over me.”
Jack’s lost his usual charm. “I’ll help—let me—”
“Don’t.”
Just that. Ice-cold. He gets it.
I stare at the seat ahead, fold my hands, coffee cooling on my skin. I don’t say another word the whole ride. I don’t have to. He knows how pissed I am.
Jack doesn’t try again. Whatever struck him with that phone call, whatever’s behind his eyes, it’s still there watching me like bad weather coming fast.
Six months, I think. Already, the cold’s settling in, deeper than any coffee stain.
