Page 18 of Boots & Scars

"Or maybe I'll corrupt her," I mused darkly.

Walker smirked, that damn knowing look on his face again. "Doubtful," he said. "Everly is the most polite kid I've met. She may be overprotected and new to this, but she's not a pushover."

Narrowing my eyes at him, I saw right through his facade. "You're doing this on purpose," I accused. "To fuck with me."

He chuckled and clapped me on the back with a force that suggested camaraderie we didn't share. "No, son," he said with an annoying warmth in his voice. "I'm doing this because it's good for you."

With that, Walker walked away, leaving me stewing in silence and reluctant responsibility.

The day passedby and I stayed on the ice, a place where I could escape the bullshit of the real world. As I glided across the rink, the familiar scrape of blades against the frozen surface filled my ears. It was a sound that had become as much a part of me as my own heartbeat.

But my solitude was short-lived. The Titans began to trickle in, their voices echoing off the walls of the rink. Among them was my younger brother, Damien.

He looked like a damn Viking with his silver-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. The resemblance to our father was uncanny, a fact that never failed to twist the knife in my gut, while I took more after my mother… the vindictive bitch.

Damien and I had never been close. He was too young to remember the divorce, the screaming matches that had shaken the walls of our childhood home. He had been spared the pain of watching our family fall apart, piece by piece.

I envied him for that.

He skated onto the ice with an easy grace, his movements fluid and confident. The other Titans greeted him with fist bumps and back slaps, their laughter ringing out across the rink, though some gave him a wary eye. The Sinclaires had a reputation, and apparently, that included Damien.

Good.

I watched from a distance, my jaw clenched tight. It was like looking at a version of myself from another life, one where I hadn't been forced to grow up too fast, to shoulder the weight of our family's dysfunction.

Damien caught my eye from across the ice, his gaze flickering with something I couldn't quite read. Recognition, maybe. Amusement.

It was always amusement with him. He never took shit seriously.

I looked away, my grip tightening on my stick. I didn't need his acknowledgment. I didn't need anyone's.

Thomas Morgan's whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of practice.

I pushed off the ice, the cold burn in my lungs a sharp reminder of my disdain for this place. Skating past the fresh-faced Titans, I felt a pang of something bitter, something like regret. They were the future of hockey, and here I was, a washed-up has-been at twenty-eight.

The locker room's musty scent hit me as I entered. It clung to the air like a stubborn fog, heavy with the memories of a thousand games played and lost. The sound of my skates hitting the floor echoed, hollow and final. I dropped onto the bench, my fingers working at the laces with practiced ease.

With each tug, the anger bubbled closer to the surface. Anger at being here. Anger at the shattered pieces of my life that seemed impossible to gather up again. Anger that insteadof lighting up the NHL, I was teaching clowns how to skate straight.

I glanced down at my hands—scarred and rough from fights that never changed anything. My brother Damien would end up just like me; I could feel it in my bones. He had Sinclaire blood running through his veins, and that meant he was doomed to fuck up, just like I did. He already had with that girl when he was in high school.

Ashley's face flashed in my mind—her smile that never quite reached her eyes, her promises as empty as the arena after a losing game. She said she loved me, but love was just another word for convenience. The moment my career tanked, she was gone.

Who could love a bastard with my face?

And there was Aaron Matthews, smug bastard, always spouting his philosophy on women and hockey like he had it all figured out. I hated he turned out to be right about her. Hated it more than anything.

As I pulled off my skates and tossed them into my bag with more force than necessary, her betrayal gnawed at me—a wound that refused to heal no matter how much time passed.

"Yeah," I muttered to myself, "fuck this."

The echoes of laughter from the ice rink taunted me—a reminder of what I'd lost and what these kids still had. It was all so fucked up.

The weight of what could have been pressed down on me as I sat there on that cold, unforgiving bench—the ghost of Cooper Sinclaire's once-promising future hanging thick in the air.

I laced up my street shoes and stepped out of the rink, the lingering chill of the ice giving way to the tepid air of an early March afternoon. The sun peeked through scattered clouds, its rays brushing against my skin with the promise of spring's return.

The campus sprawled before me, a blend of historical brick buildings and modern architecture, each structure telling its own story of the years gone by. Students wandered the pathways, their laughter and chatter creating a symphony of youthful optimism. The towering oaks that lined the walkways stood like sentinels, their branches hinting at the buds that would soon bloom.

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