Page 107 of Sticks & Serpents

I wanted to reach out—to call out to him and tell him everything would be okay—but the words stuck in my throat. All I could do was stand frozen in place as he faced what he had become—and maybe what we both were becoming.

As Cooper approached him with steady steps, ready to intervene, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a turning point for Damien—a glimpse of who he really was beneath all that anger. And in that single glance between us, I felt hope flicker even now.

I pushed through the crowd, heart racing and adrenaline pumping. I shoved past security without a second thought, ignoring their shouts and protests. All that mattered was reaching Damien. I wouldn’t let anyone stand in my way—not the refs, not his teammates, and certainly not anyone who thought they could keep me from him.

By the time I reached the locker room, chaos erupted inside. The sounds of yelling filled the air—voices overlapping, frustration palpable. Coach’s voice cut through it all, demanding control while my stomach twisted with anxiety.

“Sinclaire! What the fuck were you thinking?”

I shoved the door open without hesitation, barely registering the shouts of surprise that followed. My breath caught in my throat when I stepped inside.

Damien stood at the center of the storm, still covered in blood. His knuckles were raw and bruised, a stark contrast to his pale skin. He looked like a feral animal ready to pounce, eyes wild with fury and something darker simmering beneath the surface.

The air in the locker room felt thick with tension, every breath heavy and suffocating. Coach's voice boomed against the walls, echoing off the metal lockers as he lectured Damien.

“That was fucking reckless! You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself arrested even though you fucking deserved it!” His frustration radiated through the room, directed at Damien like a laser beam.

Damien didn’t respond. He just stood there, looking… blank. It was like he had already accepted whatever consequences came next, his expression distant and unfocused.

“Do you even care about the team?” he continued, pacing in front of him. “You think this is some kind of game? You’ve got talent, but if you keep this up?—”

“Damien,” I said softly, willing him to hear me above the din of frustration and anger swirling around us.

His head snapped up at the sound of my voice, his eyes meeting mine across the chaos of the locker room. Something flickered across his face—relief mingled with guilt, something in between that made my chest ache.

For a moment, it felt like everything else faded away—the yelling from Coach and the tension in the air evaporated as our gazes locked. Everything became background noise.

His expression shifted slightly at my words; it was almost imperceptible but enough to send warmth flooding through me—a reminder that he wasn’t completely lost yet.

Cooper exhaled sharply, the sound slicing through the tension in the room.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” he said, his voice firm but understanding.

The coach opened his mouth as if to argue, but Cooper shot him a warning look that brooked no dissent. A few seconds later, the door shut behind them, leaving Damien and me in silence.

The air felt thick, heavy with everything left unsaid. Damien stood rigidly, muscles taut as he stared at the ground, blood still smeared across his knuckles—a brutal reminder of what had just happened.

My chest tightened as I exhaled shakily. “What the hell was that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He scoffed, running a hand through his disheveled hair, frustration radiating off him like heat from a fire. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Damien? Ask why you just threw away everything?” My jaw clenched at the unfairness of it all—the way he brushed off my concern like it was nothing.

His eyes flashed up to meet mine for a split second before they dropped again. He looked so lost, so wrapped up in whatever chaos raged inside him it made my heart ache. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

I stepped closer, forcing him to look at me again. “Then make me understand.” The words slipped out with more urgency than I intended. This wasn’t just about hockey or anger; this was about us—about the darkness that always seemed to creep back into his life whenever he tried to fight it off.

He shook his head slowly, as if that simple action could clear away everything weighing on us both. “You know why."

My heart raced as I processed what he was saying. I had seen glimpses of the man behind the anger—someone who cared deeply but kept getting pushed down by the weight of his past. “Damien,” I pressed gently, stepping even closer until there was barely any space between us.

He finally looked up at me fully—those stormy blue eyes filled with something raw and unguarded that made me shiver. But just as quickly as it appeared, that vulnerability slipped away behind walls he’d built high around himself.

I swallowed hard, the words thick in my throat. “Because of what they said about me.”

His silence was all the confirmation I needed. It broke something inside me, shattering the fragile hold I had on my emotions.

I stepped even closer, my voice shaking as I pushed through the hurt. “You think I give a damn what people say about me?”

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