Page 2 of Second Shot

Freddy scowls. “What was that? Speak up, Blob.”

I grab the shredded magazine and scramble to my feet, but Freddy yanks it out of my hands. “Give it back,” I grate, but my voice sounds pathetically feeble, even to my own ears.

Freddy grins, showing those crooked teeth. “Make me.”

We both know I can’t. He’s taller than me, meaner than me, and he’s got Ryan as backup. Ryan with his perfect blond hair and green eyesthat all the girls giggle about. Ryan who’s in seventh grade while the rest of us are still in sixth. Ryan who rarely starts shit but never stops it either.

Right now, Ryan’s looking at his shoes, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I know he’s tired of this game. He wants to go. Part of me prays he’ll say something, maybe tell Freddy to knock it off. But he won’t. He never does.

I make a grab for the magazine. It’s destroyed, I’m not sure why I even want it back. Maybe it’s just the principal of the thing. Freddy doesn’t deserve to even touch that magazine with his filthy hands. Unfortunately, I miss and he slaps my face with the shredded magazine.

“Aw, is the baby gonna cry?” Freddy makes exaggerated sobbing noises. “Boo-hoo, my stupid magazine is all messed up. Boo, hoo, hoo.” He curls his lips and throws the shredded magazine on the ground. “You’re pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss, gritting my teeth. I once more meet Ryan’s gaze. “And fuck you too.”

Ryan doesn’t react. He hasn’t said anything in a while. His eyes are glittering oddly and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he feels sorry for me. That’s impossible to believe. Ryan doesn’t feel sorry for anyone.

The bell rings, signaling it’s time to get to first period. What crowd is left starts to disperse,kids stepping over the torn magazine pages like they’re trash. Which I guess they are now.

Freddy gives me one last shove against the lockers before walking away. “See you tomorrow, Blubber Boy.”

The hallway empties out, leaving me alone with the remains of my magazine scattered across the linoleum. I kneel down and start gathering the pieces, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Of course it doesn’t work. It’s completely ruined.

Still, I shove the torn pages into my backpack and head to class. Once I’m in my seat I spend the next forty-five minutes staring out the window. My throat throbs from when Freddy choked me, and Ryan’s sneering face is burned into my brain. Someday I’ll leave this fucking school behind and things will be different.I’llbe different. That’s a promise I make to myself.

One day, I’ll be strong enough that nobody can make me feel this small ever again.

Chapter One

(Fourteen Years Later)

Gabe

The Seadragon Center at 7:00 a.m. is my church. Empty stands stretch into darkness, the ice pristine and unmarked, and the only sound is the whisper of my blades carving familiar patterns. I’ve been doing this routine for three years now. Early morning skate, alone with my thoughts and the cold bite of recycled air.

I’m working on my crossovers in the far corner when the arena doors bang open and familiar voices fill the space. Some of my teammates have finally arrived. They flood onto the ice in their usual chaotic fashion, a mix of morning grumbles and easy banter that means home to me.

“What a surprise, Jacobs beat us here.” Dom Halloran’s voice carries across the ice as he leads the pack, helmet dangling from one hand. “Dude you’re like a vampire. Do you ever even sleep?”

“Of course he does. Vampires sleep, dummy,” Quinn Marlowe shoots back, but there’s affection in his gruff tone. The veteran defenseman skates past me with afriendly nod, already focused and ready for practice despite the early hour.

“Thanks for having my back, Marlowe,” I say with a smirk.

“My pleasure.” He grins.

Troy Kincaid glides by more quietly, offering me a quick tap of his stick against my shin pads, our usual morning greeting. He’s one of the few guys who understands my need for space and never pushes for conversation when a simple acknowledgment will do.

“Morning, Jacobs,” Andrej Petrov says as he approaches, his accent still thick after three years in North America. Our captain has that rare quality of being serene most of the time, but an absolute beast when needed.

“Morning, Cap,” I reply, which earns me a small smile.

“Foster, you’re full of shit about that girl from last night,” Beck Rawlins calls out from across the ice, where he’s already firing pucks at the empty net with mechanical precision. “No way she was actually a model.”

“You calling me a liar?” Jamie “Jinx” Foster protests, spinning in a dramatic circle. “I have it on good authority that she’s done catalog work.”

“I don’t know man.” Rawlins frowns. “She’s not very hot.”

“Dude, she’s been in plenty of magazines,” Foster insists.

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