Page 40 of Unloved

It’ll have to be me, I guess.

“Respectfully, sir,” I sigh, still breathless. “We clearly have a defensive problem, and you’re running us all ragged for it.”

Holden flinches, and I want to apologize to him—I will, but right now, I stand firm.

“You might as well be playing keep-away, superstar,” Toren says, seeming unbothered despite his hard breaths from the overexertion.

“At leastwhenI pass, I’m passing to my line—not the other fucking team.”

“All right,” Coach yells, his voice holding its usual heavy authority but stronger. Because Coach Harris doesn’t yell. He’s not that kind of coach. Instead, he thrives on respect to lead us, something I admired from the first time we met.

Everyone sinks back, watching as the middle-aged man rubs his face repeatedly before looking us over once more with a dismissive wave.

“Do whatever you want with them, Coach,” he calls to the assistant coach on his right. “I don’t care. I don’t want to see any of them until they get their shit together.”

He starts heading off the ice but pauses again and looks toward Rhys.

“It’s your team, Koteskiy. Remember that.”

Rhys’s face tightens, but he nods. Ever the golden-boy captain, even under the annoying strain that is Toren Kane.

So instead we spend the last third of practice skating suicides until I’m pretty sure we’re all about to puke. Everyone is huffing and barely standing by the time Coach Johnson lets us go for the day.

Back in the locker room, things are quiet, tension thick in the air around us.

Rhys slides his AirPods in the instant he’s out of the showers,hair dripping as he tugs on his clothes and heads out, head bowed. A shadow of our golden captain, wearing a smile as a mask he thinks we all don’t see through.

I showered quickly, too, mostly because I’ve got a test tomorrow morning and I’m going to try to get some rest for it.

“Ready to go?”

Holden slaps my arm as he comes to stand by me, waiting because he offered to drive me after Bennett said he had somewhere else to be and rushed out before the rest of us. I shove the last of my things into my bag before nearly slamming my head into the panel of wood above my cubby.

My entire body spins toward the only person who would purposefully smack into me.

Toren fucking Kane.

“Excuse me,teammates,” he sneers. His tattooed, still-wet body shoves over to his locker cubby as he rips his towel off and tosses it onto my gear bag.

“Fucking disgusting,” I grumble, grabbing the towel and snapping it at him hard before tossing it back. He only smirks over his shoulder despite the red, whiplike mark across his back where I’ve hit him. I want to be able to contain the words, to be the bigger person, but my mouth is already open. “Why don’t you pack it up and shower at home next time? No one fucking wants you here.”

He nods, pulling sweatpants over his legs before turning and stretching his arms wide.

“Well aware.”

“Then why are you fucking here?”

He steps closer, shirtless, black ink on display. The tattoo that takes up the majority of his side and torso looks mildly familiar; I feel like I’ve seen it before.

“If you think Iwantto be here, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

Don’t be a fucking idiot.

My fist is flying before I can stop it, slamming into his cheekbone. He has plenty of time to protect himself, to grab my arm or dodge, but he doesn’t. He lets the hit land.

“Your dad teach you those moves?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, shoving his bare chest so his back hits the side wall of the corner we’re in. I’m petrified that he knows something he definitely shouldn’t. I’ve kept my father’s identity under wraps, tight. Not that anyone would know the washed-up third-string player that was John Fredderic. Only Coach Harris and I know. But I’m more furious that this fucker has the audacity to say something about it. I lean in toward him, quietly seething. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

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