Page 14 of Shattered Hate

“What’s your list looking like today?” Kal’s voice breaks through my internal thoughts as I move my eyes to his bed on the other side of the room.

“Tiring,” I groan, standing up and stretching.

“Trayton,” Kal growls, and I stop stretching to glance at him. He’s staring over at me with a not-too-impressed expression on his face.

“What?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, you couldn’t get past a day without seeing my dick. It’s woken up to say hello to you, Cap,” I tease, swinging my hips gently from side to side to give Kal a little wiggle. Immediately, Kal rolls his eyes and turns over in bed. One and two on the list—done. Now I can get on with three.

Standing in the shower, I let the hot water cascade over me, trying to wash away my growing anxiety. I’ve been perfecting my techniques, knowing that this season could be the one that finally gets me signed. The thought of making it big always ignites a fire within me, but it also brings a familiar, gnawing worry. What about Brayden and Kal?

I scrub my body with intensity, hoping to remove the unease, but it clings to me stubbornly. Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and return to the bedroom.

“Oh, he hides it for once,” Kal teases from across the room.

“Kal.”

“Tray.”

I hesitate before sitting on my bed. “What happens if we get signed to completely different states?” I look at Kal, seeking the reassurance only he can provide.

Kal frowns slightly, then shifts on his bed to face me. “It will probably happen, Tray. Between the three of us, what are the chances of us being near each other?”

I nod slowly, my gaze dropping to a spot on the floor.

“It’s only May, Tray. We have nearly a year until any of this,” he says, trying to sound reassuring.

“I know.” I hesitate again. “I just… I don’t want to lose you both.” My voice is soft, almost a whisper. I hate speaking like this, hate feeling weak. But when it comes to Brayden and Kal, my defenses crumble. I don’t know what I would do without them.

“Just because we won’t see each other every day doesn’t mean we’ll lose each other, Tray.” Kal’s voice is gentle yet firm.

I manage a tight smile, nodding. I try to push the nagging voice to the back of my mind, but it persists.

Everyone always leaves.

Striding out of the locker room, I breathe in the cold, crisp air. I can already hear the sounds of skates slicing the ice and pucks hitting the boards. The anticipation builds as I head to the rink, ready for another tough training session.

The ice sparkles under the bright lights, and as soon as my skates touch the surface, a rush of excitement washes over me.This is where I belong. Every worry seems to vanish, leaving only the thrill of the game.

I glide across the ice, straight toward my teammates. Kal gives me a nod, and Brayden flashes a quick smile before his eyes flicker behind me and then back to me again, wincing slightly. Frowning, I spin on my skates. And there he is—Daxton—leaning against the boards, watching with that infuriatingly calm demeanor. I’d almost forgotten he’d be here today. My mood sours instantly. A small smirk appears on his lips before he fakes a yawn.

“Break a leg, King—literally,” he calls out, his laughter echoing through the rink as he collapses back into his chair with a smug grin plastered on his face.

“Who does this guy think he is? Who’s been feeding him bravery flakes for breakfast?” I mutter under my breath, my words laced with disbelief. I watch as he arches one eyebrow at me, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. Without taking his eyes off me, he picks up a colossal sketching pad and pen, lifting it dramatically to obscure his face.

“Keep those soulless eyes on me, Rivers, and enjoy the show. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to real talent,” I taunt, my voice dripping with venom. The sketch pad lowers ever so slightly, revealing his eyes, ablaze with heated intensity that makes me believe he could burn the entire rink with just a glance. His gaze flickers down to the pad momentarily before snapping back to mine. He winks, a gesture that sends a shiver down my spine, before raising the pad once more.

“This—” I begin, my voice trembling with rage.

“Stop,” Brayden interrupts sharply. “Just pretend he’s not even there. He knows taunting you is going to get a rise out of you, and then fists are going to start swinging. Remember what the dean said.” My jaw tightens, the muscles straining as I takeone last, seething look at the back of that infuriating sketch pad before forcing myself to turn away.

The rink is buzzing with activity; the sound of blades slicing through ice fills the air as we go through our drills. I skate with determined accuracy, every move a testament to my dedication. The coach’s whistle echoes sharply, directing us through our paces, urging us to push harder, skate faster, be stronger.

My breath forms clouds in the cold air, my focus solely on the puck in front of me. I weave through my teammates, my stick handling the puck with practiced ease. But out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Daxton, sitting off to the side, sketch pad in hand.

With a grunt of frustration, I try to ignore him, redirecting my attention back to the drill. But every time I glance over, Daxton’s eyes are fixed on me, the pencil in his hand moving furiously across the paper. The intensity in his gaze is almost palpable, as if he’s pouring every ounce of his concentration into capturing the moment.

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