Chapter 2 Cracks in the Ice

Cracks in the Ice

Dylan’s POV

I hit the floor in the process of scoring, and the whole team burst out in laughter.

One second I was moving, driving hard toward the net with everything I had, and the next my skate caught an edge and I fell on the ice faster than I could process. My knee took the worst of the fall and the sound echoed across the entire rink. I felt a sharp pain that I couldn’t explain, blood started gushing out from my knee. Every single person on the ice stopped what they were doing just to watch.

And then, they started laughing again, not all of them.

“He should be sent back to Ironridge, what a pathetic waste.” Cole said and they laughed the more. The kind of laughter that isn’t really about finding something funny, but finding someone to be below them. I heard it bounce off the walls of the rink and settle under my skin like a splinter.

I lay there for exactly one second and then, I got up.

My knee was screaming but I didn’t look down at it. I didn’t look at the ice or my skates or anything that would make me seem like I was checking myself for damage. I looked straight at Cole who had been on me the whole drill, he had been pushing just a little too hard since the moment the coach blew the first whistle. His shoulders were still shaking with the laugh, that smirk sitting on his face like he’d earned it.

Something snapped loose inside me.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” My voice came out high, filled with anger.

Cole tilted his head. “A little bit, yeah.”

I leaped towards him, ready to fight. “Say it again.”

He didn’t back up. He squared his shoulders and closed the distance between us, pushing my head with his, and by the time we were chest to chest, the laughter had completely died, it was as if everybody was holding their breath, waiting for the outcome.

“Back off, transfer,” he said, and there was an edge in his voice now that hadn’t been there before.

“Make me then, coward,” I said.

Before I knew what was happening, his hand came up and shoved my shoulder, and I shoved back harder, and then he grabbed my jersey and I hit him hard on his face. I honestly couldn’t tell what came over me in that moment because my blood was boiling loud in my ears and everything felt like it was happening at half speed and double intensity at the same time.

I hit him hard again and he got one back. Someone was yelling for us to stop, it wasn’t the coach because he went out to while we were playing, maybe one of the other guys, I couldn’t separate the voices and I didn’t give a fuck about it.

Then a hand grabbed me roughly from behind, the  grip was strong like running into a moving wall. Both my arms were locked and I was being pulled backward before I could throw another punch, and no matter how hard I pulled against it, I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Enough!”

His voice was quiet, which somehow made it worse than if he’d shouted. I stopped struggling, not because I wanted to, but because something about his voice made my body respond before my brain caught up.

It was the captain, Liam.

He had me by the back of my jersey, one hand firm between my shoulder blades, already pushing me toward the tunnel entrance. I looked back once and saw Cole standing there, chest heaving, a red mark rising along his jaw. The rest of the team was completely still, and watching. Nobody said a word or moved to follow.

Liam didn’t say anything either. He just walked me off the ice like I was a problem he had already decided how to handle.

We entered the tunnel and the sound of the rink disappeared behind us quickly. I tried to slow down but his hand didn’t ease up until we reached the dressing room door, which he pushed open and walked me inside without breaking stride.

Then he let go.

I turned around immediately, ready to say something, ready to push back against whatever lecture was about to come, but he wasn’t looking at me. He walked to the far side of the bench, crouching down to pull open a cabinet, and he came back with a small first aid kit in his hand.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

He looked at me briefly and something in the steadiness of his expression made the argument feel not worth having and I sat down on the bench.

The dressing room felt very small with just the two of us in it. The noise from outside was a distant murmur, muffled through the walls. Under the fluorescent light, I noticed things I hadn’t been able to see from across the rink and photographs. The sharp line of his jaw, and the way he moved with that same deliberateness I had noticed on the ice.

He knelt down in front of me without any hesitation he opened the kit. We both said nothing, the silence just sat between us like something neither of us knew what to do with.

He reached for my knee, where the padding had shifted from the fall, and his fingers moved toward the edge of the wound that was bleeding through the fabric. I felt the pressure of his hand getting closer. My hand moved to my stick, my fingers wrapping around the shaft. My eyes stayed on his face, ready, and waiting. I knew what blood did to vampires, If he moved even an inch closer to my wound I was going to put that stick straight through his skull and deal with the consequences after.

His hand hovered less than an inch from my knee and his eyes locked onto my wound, and I watched  his expression change that he almost managed to hide. His jaw tightened and a muscle jumped near his temple. Then, the corner of his mouth shifted and tips of his fangs caught the light. The faint, involuntary shift at the corner of his mouth.

Every nerve in my body went cold. He noticed it and he looked away. He stood up immediately and set the kit down on the bench beside me, turned around, and walked out without a single word. He slammed the door, and I was alone.

I  heaved a sigh of relief, staring at the space where he had just been. I reached for the kit myself and started cleaning the cut, my jaw tight.

The door opened again and I looked up, fear jumping in my chest before I could stop it. But it wasn’t Liam.

It was Calen, still in full gear, his helmet in his hand. He looked at me, the open first aid kit, and at the door like he was doing the math on what he had missed.

He walked over and sat down a few feet away, elbows on his knees.

He didn’t say anything like he was choosing his words carefully.

Then he looked at me and said, “Man, be ready… You made him angry.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​