Stuck With The Ice Star I Hate

⋅ ₊ ⋅ ALISSON RIVERA (P.O.V) ⋅ ₊ ⋅

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“Please, Ally! You’re the only person who can save me!”

I know I should say no, but how can I refuse when my best friend gives me those puppy-dog eyes?

Damn, Leah, she knows my weak spot…

She knows I can’t say no to her, even when her requests are the most ridiculous in the world. Even when she asks me to take her place in the one thing I hate doing most on a Saturday night—taking pictures at the Boston Harbor Rebels game in the Harbor Cup.

Honestly, what the heck am I even doing here?

Isn’t it already bad enough that I have to deal with my brother hogging the TV every season, watching and recording every game, since forever… And now I’m here, at the stadium, surrounded by thousands of people shouting in my ear, “Harbor! Rebels! Harbor! Rebels!” in sharp, almost military beats, while I watch some weird hawk mascot shaking silver and navy-blue pom-poms, celebrating the win.

I lower the camera, hands tired.

Why does she ask me to take pictures of everything when we both know this is all about Tristan McKenna, the team’s star?

I roll my eyes just thinking about all the times she gushes over his soft black hair—and his muscular body. What’s so special about a six-pack anyway? Besides, 185cm? He isn’t even that tall…

“Harbor! Rebels! Harbor! Rebels!”

I get up quickly, so quickly that it surprises the girls next to me, who are wearing jerseys with the number 88 and 'MCKENNA' printed above it. That makes irritation tighten my stomach. They glare at me, but they let me pass as I feel my body growing hotter and hotter.

… “Harbor! Rebels!” …

I make my way through the narrow aisle, keeping the camera steady in my hands and silently praying that no one spills soda on me along the way, as the stadium’s roar reverberates in my chest like a second heartbeat—loud, persistent, impossible to ignore.

Finally, I lean my back against a navy-blue concrete wall, trying to catch my breath, and push my glasses up, squeezing my eyes shut tightly.

It’s quiet here. Chilling, even. I feel like I can finally breathe.

But the camera still weighs in my hands.

My eyes drop, and I open the last photo I took, the one of the mascot doing some questionable dance that makes me roll my eyes.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, even though I’m not sure whether I’m talking about the collective worship of this whole sports thing or the way my mood crashes just thinking about how I’m wasting an important Saturday here instead of at karaoke…

I peel a strand of hair off my forehead, walking down the hallway aimlessly, looking at pictures of the play that wins the game for the Rebels... and go through a half-open door marked RESTRICTED ACCESS, only realizing how stupid that is when the noise of the crowd fades into the distance.

The hallway here is different…

Cleaner, quieter, lit by a light that’s way too white…

“You son of a bitch—” The voice makes me freeze, just like the sight that hits me when I turn the corner.

My eyes widen when Tristan McKenna’s fist, the team’s star, slams into the captain’s jaw hard enough to knock him backward and almost to the floor…

But it’s the sound of bone and flash that really makes me step back, also out of balance.

My presence nearly goes unnoticed beneath Tristan’s loud, worked-up voice as he grabs Miles by the jersey, his fist already raised and ready to hit the captain in the face again. Almost.

Because in the next second, he realizes they aren’t alone.

Tristan’s gaze sweeps across the hallway and locks onto me with a sudden violence—almost as quick as the punch he just threw…

And for the first time tonight, I truly see him.

His chest rising and falling too quickly, black hair stuck to his forehead, jaw clenched, shoulders tense beneath the practice shirt stretched across his arms, green eyes shining in a way that leaves me frozen in place…

Miles spits blood from the corner of his mouth and struggles to straighten up, pushing Tristan’s hand away, but he doesn’t say a word.

The captain is big and broad, the kind of presence that usually dominates any space. But it’s McKenna who truly fills the entire hallway. And right now, he’s looking at me.

Shit.

Tristan’s eyes drop to the camera in my hands… and that’s when my legs remember how to work, when my body finally does something useful on its own.

I turn around and walk so fast that by the time I hear Tristan’s loud, impatient voice, “Hey, you, wait! Fuck!”, I’m already crossing that door again.

The noise from the stands gets louder again.

The chant now feels almost comforting, ironically enough. But I don’t return to the stands. The thought of blending into the crowd and snapping another picture makes my stomach churn. I can’t stay here even for a second longer. I can’t risk being seen by Tristan—or Miles. Or both of them. Again.

My phone rings, but this time I don’t stop my quick, desperate steps. I don’t need to look to know exactly who’s calling me, of course. And all of this is her fault. Leah and her puppy-dog eyes!

“Do you realize how much you owe me?” I say quickly as I answer the call, already walking through the doors out of the stadium.

“Are you seriously complaining about premium tickets to watch the Boston Harbor Rebels win the Harbor Cup finals?” Leah says on the other end, amused despite the obvious exhaustion in her voice. That softens my anger, makes me hesitate for a moment, and makes me take a deep breath.

The freezing Boston wind hits my face hard, slipping under my coat.

“Who says they win?” I tease, lifting my eyes to the sky and holding the phone to my ear while my other hand hangs the camera by my side.

“Of course they did.”

“No.” I lie, but the playful tone in my voice says everything. “They lose badly.”

Leah forces out a laugh.

“No way Tristan would lose a game!”

Tristan.

That name brings bright, wide, and glowing green eyes back into my mind, looking sharp and furious.

… ̶e̶y̶e̶s̶ ̶o̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶v̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶d̶a̶r̶k̶ …

It brings back his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury.

… ̶i̶t̶ ̶b̶r̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶b̶r̶e̶a̶t̶h̶ ̶c̶l̶o̶s̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶i̶n̶e̶ …

It brings the punch he threw at the captain’s face right after the win.

“That guy... He’s a violent maniac, Leah! I told you there's something wrong with him… he’s a total psycho! He punched his own captain in the face! What’s that? Some twisted kind of celebration? Or is he just insane?”

“What?” Leah coughs. Hard. “Tristan did what?”

I walk down the sidewalk, looking at the sky, admiring the few bright dots that show through the gray sky.

“I swear, Leah! He’s as good-looking as he is crazy—AH!” The scream bursts from my throat, loud and sharp, when I trip on the sidewalk and fall backward, hitting the ground hard.

The pain in my hip and back is intense, momentarily taking the air out of me. My vision went dark for a moment*, but I think I saw a figure in the shadows.*

“Ally? Alisson!” Leah’s worried voice cuts sharply in my ear, snapping me back.

“I’m okay…” I say, looking at my truly pathetic situation. “I just tripped…”

“Oh, my God! Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”

“No, no… I just scratch... my hand…” My voice falters as I look down at the ground… at the camera and its lens, completely, totally destroyed.