Page 16 of Fault Line

“You know it, man.” He laughs, dark eyes shining with excitement. “I’ve been working on my breakouts all summer.”

“I’ve been working on my slap shot,” Bodie chimes in beside us. “You better watch out, Becksy. I might steal your spotlight.”

“Says the third liner,” I cough under my breath, earning myself a harsh glare.

We turn our attention back to Coach Clark, who’s rattling off our practice schedule. We start with a simple passing drill, moving the puck around the rink in a specific pattern.

After a few rounds, Coach switches it up, directing us to work on breakaways. I line up for my shot, taking a deep breath before skating toward the goal. I shoot the puck, watching as it sails past our goalie, Dean, and straight into the net.

Bodie skates up beside me, clapping me on the back. “Nice shot. Maybe I’ll let you keep your limelight after all.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, man. That’s big of you.”

We run through a few more drills and plays, sweat beading on our foreheads as we work on perfecting our game. Energy builds in the rink, the excitement of the fresh season warming our blood.

As practice winds down, Clark calls us over for a huddle. “Good work, boys,” he says, his breath visible in the frigid air. “We’ve got a tough season ahead of us.” Then he rattles off some more inspirational bullshit before we break, skating off the ice and back to the locker room.

There’s a sharp, burning sensation in my chest and a dull, seething ache in my muscles, but it’s a satisfying feeling. We’ve been putting in the work, and it’s bound to pay off, the same way it does every fucking year.

As we strip off our gear, a sense of contentment brews inside of me. For the last seventeen years of my life, hitting the ice has always been my favorite way to recharge—my oasis in the desert, my guiding light.

I quickly shower and change before heading off to my morning lecture. As I grab my bag and head for Wey Hall, my mind drifts back to Friday night with Kaia. I’m chalking the whole thing up to a momentary lapse in judgment.

I was shocked to find out that my assumptions about her and Elio were false. And yeah, I am fucking attracted to her. In a big way.

I mean, who wouldn’t be?

But the fact that I practically stalked her at the party, offered her a ride home, and then insinuated that our verbal sparring was akin to foreplay—well, it was all a bit much, even for me.

Shaking it off, I make my way inside the lecture hall, scanning the seats for a spot to sit. My stomach dips when I see Kaia sitting near the front, her soft raven hair brushing against her bare shoulders.

I take a deep breath and make my way over to the opposite side of the room. Unable to stop myself, I glance in her direction, trying to catch her eye. But she doesn’t even bother to look my way for a split second.

I’ll admit, it stings a little.

After our last conversation, I’m confused. She admitted that she doesn’t want me to leave her alone, but I’m still struggling to figure out exactly where the line is drawn.

As the lecture begins, I’m easily distracted. I sneak a few more glances toward her, taking in the way her hair dusts across her shoulders and how her eyes light up as she listens to our guest lecturer.

But every time I look over, I see Elio leaning into her—whispering in her ear, jotting notes on her stationery, smirking to himself—and it all makes me feel a little bit queasy.

Elio Reynolds is not a good fucking guy. I wonder if Kaia even knows half the shit he gets up to on the regular, not to mention the stunt he pulled back when his brother was a student here.

It’s not as though I’m personally seeking out information about him, but the rumors circulate here at Coastal like wildfire, especially when you happen to have a famous sibling.

As the lecture goes on, I try my best to focus on the material at hand. But my mind keeps wandering back to the non-couple across from me. I know they’re whispering back and forth, and I sure as hell would like to know what they’re talking about.

Normally, Kaia never lets herself give in to distractions during class. In fact, it’s something she’d usually get on my case about, berating me like some sort of teacher’s pet.

So when the lecture finally ends, I pack up my bags and head out, a sense of relief flooding through me as I leave them both behind.

* * *

As partof our in-season training schedule, we’re required to hit two walk-in lifts each week—where we work out before or between classes—with a third session being optional. Before I hit my first, I head into the dining hall to grab some food.

I stack my plate, letting the clinking of silverware drown out the ringing in my pocket. It’s my father calling, his name glaring at me from the screen, and I debate for a moment whether or not to answer. The man has always been a stickler for formality, and my stomach twists with anxiety just thinking about the ensuing conversation.

Against my better judgment, I answer the call anyway. “Hey, Dad.”

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