Page 36 of Redeeming the Villain

Walking into the arena in my suit and tie, I feel the shy and nervous pieces of myself shift into the background, the confident persona taking over. The broken version of myself doesn’t win hockey games, so if only for tonight’s game, I’ll push everything back inside.

In the quiet moments when no one’s watching, Malik, the boy—who was abandoned by his parents, then given to his ungrateful uncle, who saw him more as a punching bag than a loved one—gets easily overwhelmed and has panic attacks; it’s a version of myself that no one will ever really know.

But here, at this arena, I am Malik Ravenwell, a legend. To any opponent who steps on the ice, I am the villain, their biggest threat.

I can’t let my past get in the way of my future. I have to make it to the pro league. And if I have to pretend to be okay in order to get there, I will. Every step of the way.

But that doesn’t mean that I won’t exert some of that built-up anger. After all, it’s expected of me. I’m a monster on the ice, doing anything and everything possible to win. Getting under other players’ skin is my favorite pastime. To agitate them. Score. Dominate.

Standing up for my teammates when they’re getting picked on is the easiest way to flip the switch inside of me. I become unglued, uncontrolled, and if anyone is going to bring that out of me, it’s going to be our rivals.

The photographer takes photos of us players as we file into the building, one by one, all pretending the camera doesn’t exist.

The second I breathe in the locker room air, my skin starts to tingle, excitement looming beneath the surface. The only time I truly feel comfortable in my own skin is on the ice, and I’m dying to get out there.

After gearing up, we head to the tunnel to hit the ice for warm-ups, and before we know it, the announcer is listing off the starters, and we’re lining up on the blue line.

Our center, Elias Lancaster. Our forwards, me and Asher Kensington. Then we have our defensive pair, Dean and Griffin. Between the pipes is a legend of his own making, the best goalie in collegiate hockey, Finn Rutherford.

The air is electric as we set up for puck drop at center ice. Readying to face off against the Royals, I huff out a breath and lock eyes with number fourteen, my lips tipping into a cocky smirk.

A second later, the ref drops the puck, and the game’s underway. Using my stick, I fling the puck back between my legs to Asher. Digging my skates in, I take off down the ice. Ash breaks into the zone, keeping the puck in front of him.

He dishes it over to Griffin and passes it back to me. Asher skates his way around the net, and I see the play in my mind before it even happens.

I pass the three defenders, and the puck finds Asher’s stick in the blink of an eye. He wraps it around the goalpost and tucks it in the corner of the net, and the arena erupts. His arms and stick fly into the air as he cheers.

“Off the first face-off? Let’s fucking go!” Griffin shouts as we race toward Ash, crowding around him in celebration.

The score may be one to zero, but we are just getting started. And if there’s anything I know about the Royals, it’s that they’re going to give us one hell of a fight. We are nearly identical in terms of skill.

The first period continues to fly by, every shift on the ice more gruesome than the last. But so far, they have been playing clean, which is a nice surprise, as I haven’t had to beat anyone’s ass yet. But there’s still time.

Adrenaline is flowing through my veins—my favorite feeling in the world.

When I glide over to the bench for the media time-out, long blonde hair catches my eye. My head whips that way, seemingly of its own accord, as if I’m desperate to see who it is.

Alora?

But it’s not her, and I don’t know why I expected it to be her. The last time she had come to one of my hockey games, I had her escorted out in front of the whole student body, claiming that she was stalking me, and the staff didn’t bat an eye.

For a split second, my heart sinks, a sharp burn stinging deep in my chest.

Was I hoping it was her?

God, that thought is confusing as fucking hell. But I push it away. Now is not the time to start dissecting that reaction.

There’s only a minute left in the first period, and the score hasn’t changed since the first goal. We’ve gone back and forth this entire time, but both goalies are on fire, not letting anything by.

Since everyone’s playing fair, there haven’t been any penalties either. But this could change in the blink of an eye. It takes one turnover, one bad pass, one steal to completely change the course of the game.

Skating into our defensive zone, I use my stick to try to intercept a pass, but it manages to get through to the other teammates. Not a moment later, one of their players slap-shots the puck toward the net. Our goalie catches it in his glove.

We reset on a dot, and another face-off resumes. Asher wins it, and we take off down the ice. Asher to Griffin. Griffin to Elias. Elias back to Asher, who’s flying through the slot. He catches the pass perfectly and cuts across the crease. With the flick of his wrist, the puck shoots over the goalie’s shoulder, landing in the back of the net.

The arena explodes as he scores with three seconds left on the clock of the first period. He skates around the net, gaining speed before dropping to one knee and pulling an imaginary bow and arrow.

As the horn sounds around us, we pile on Asher, patting his head and shouting our praise over the blaring noise.

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