Page 5 of Sticks & Serpents

As we wrapped up the scrimmage, my mind drifted back to Holly—how she stood there with that familiar warmth in her gaze before she turned cold and distant. My heart thumped against my ribs as if trying to break free from the weight of my own making.

I needed to keep it together, but every glance at her stung like salt on an open wound.

I trudged into the locker room, the scent of sweat and ice clinging to me like a second skin. The shower beckoned, promising a brief escape from the chaos swirling in my mind. I needed that—needed to wash away the remnants of the scrimmage, of Holly’s gaze, and the searing jealousy gnawing at my gut. as I stepped under the spray. The hot water cascaded over me, a momentary relief against the intensity that followed me like a shadow.

After my shower, I started to dress, hoping I could get the fuck out of here before I was forced into doing something else.

“All right, listen up!” Tom Morgan’s voice boomed. “Are you decent? We need to go over the expectations for this game before anyone can fucking fuck this up.”

I rolled my eyes. Typical Morgan—always barking orders as if he were some sort of royalty ruling over his hockey kingdom. I glanced toward him, leaning against a locker, arms crossed and expression fierce. He had an edge to him I always admired. At least he wasn't fucking phony.

Then there was U of M's assistant coach, some wannabe with an all-too-perfect smile that reminded me of some aging actor in his prime—sharp jawline, slicked-back hair, and an air of smug confidence that made my skin crawl. There was something else—a sense of performative authority that rubbed me the wrong way. I caught him watching us like he was sizing up his next conquest on a reality show.

He stood too close to Tom as if he were trying to siphon off some of his power by proximity. It felt fake; something about him just didn’t sit right with me. Was it his insincerity? The way he looked at us like we were pieces on a chessboard? Whatever it was, I didn’t trust him.

“Now listen,” Morgan continued. “This charity game isn’t just for show; we’ve got sponsors watching closely. We can’t afford any slip-ups.”

The assistant coach nodded vigorously, adding unnecessary commentary that droned on in my ears like static. “It’s important for the reputation of all involved; we need to make sure we look good out there.”

Yeah, well, looking good didn’t matter if you didn’t play well.

I dressed quickly while tuning them out—lost in thoughts of Holly again—the warmth in her eyes that turned frigid when she saw me tackle Logan like it was personal. All those memories came flooding back with every click of my skate guards against the tile floor.

“Sinclaire!” Tom barked suddenly, pulling me back into focus. “Pay attention.”

I shot him a glance and let out a noncommittal grunt before slipping on my hoodie. Whatever they said next wouldn’t change what happened on that ice today or how hard I’d fight for what I wanted—even if it meant battling both my past and this prick who thought he could run our lives from behind a clipboard.

“Gentlemen,” the other coach—Stanley? The fuck if I knew—began, his voice dripping with condescension, “this charity game is more than just a scrimmage. The NHL sponsors this event every year. It’s an honor and a privilege to participate. It means you’re among the best of the best.”

“Or that your father made some calls.” Logan shot me a glare from across the room, his voice low and growly.

I leaned back against my locker, crossing my arms with a smirk. “What can I say? Dad’s always had a knack for bending reality to fit his narrative.”

A few chuckles rippled through the locker room, but Logan remained tense, teeth clenched like he was preparing for a fight rather than a charity game.

“E-fucking-nough!” Morgan barked, cutting through our banter with his usual authority. “This isn’t about your family connections or whatever twisted advantage you think you have. You all need to understand that even though players participating are from all across the country, we need to be unified in this.”

He paced back and forth in front of us, intensity radiating off him like heat from an oven. “The majority of you have already been drafted. Just because you’ve deferred doesn’t guarantee you a spot on the team. This is a way to showcase your development to your respective teams.”

His words sank in like lead weights. I could feel the tension creeping up my spine again—the pressure of proving myself was as familiar as my skates digging into the ice.

“Make it count,” he continued, eyes narrowing at each one of us as if willing us to absorb every syllable.

The stakes felt impossibly high in that moment, yet all I could think about was how easy it would be to slip back into fire—the familiar rush of anger pushing me forward when nothing else felt within reach. I glanced at Logan again; something about him always set me off balance.

But this wasn’t just about proving myself anymore; it was also about showing Holly I wasn’t just some reckless punk trying to escape my demons.

Morgan paced in front of us, the tension palpable. “This isn’t just a scrimmage; it’s an opportunity,” he declared, eyes darting over our faces. “There’s a dinner with donors and a gala afterward. Alumni from Crestwood, current players, and NHL legends will be in attendance.”

A low murmur swept through the locker room, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. The chance to rub elbows with NHL greats had everyone buzzing—everyone but me. I had enough shit in my life without mixing in old ghosts.

Fucking NHL alumni weren't that great either.

“Expect to rent tuxedos,” Morgan continued, a glimmer of annoyance flickering across his features as he glanced at me.

“Yeah? What if I’d rather wear my game jersey?” I shot back, a smirk playing on my lips.

Morgan glared at me, then pressed on. “This is important for fundraising. The committee will be reaching out to collect your information.”

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