Page 4 of Second Shot

In my sanctuary.

“Holy shit,” someone breathes, maybe Foster, maybe Niko. “Is that—?” The conversation around me dies completely.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t echo in the empty arena. This is it. The moment I’ve imagined a thousand times. I knew he played in the NHL so I knew that one day I’d come face to face with the asshole. It’s finally happened. Ryan Caldwell is about to see the new me. Not the scared, soft, pudgy kid he knew, but the man I’ve become. The sniper who’s scored twenty-five goals this season. The player who’s earned respect and fear in equal measure.

But I’m not ready.

I’m nowherenearfucking ready for this day to be here. Despite all I’ve accomplished, the sight of Ryan has me feeling like that pathetic little nerd all over again. I feel like puking as I stare at him. I can almost hear his mocking laughter from the past. I can smell my own fear and sweat as I grovel at the feet of my childhood tormentor. I want to run. Hide. Scream with frustration.

Get a fucking grip you sniveling pussy.

Instead of giving into my raw panic, I force myself to skate toward them. While I still feel likepuking, I make each stride deliberate despite the way my legs feel like jelly. Any second now, those green eyes will land on my face and something will click. Recognition. Maybe shock. Definitely guilt. He’ll see past the lean muscle and the confident posture and remember Gabriel Jacobs from Morningside Middle School. The kid whose lunch money he stole. The kid he shoved in hallways. The kid whose very existence seemed to offend him.

“Petrov and Jacobs.” Coach’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Get over here and meet your new linemate.”

Petrov goes ahead of me, thank god. I follow, closing the distance between us, close enough now to see the faint lines around Ryan’s eyes, the small scar above his left eyebrow that wasn’t there when we were kids.

Petrov extends a hand. “Andrej Petrov. Welcome to the team.”

Smiling, Ryan grips the other man’s hand firmly. “Ryan Caldwell. Big fan of your game, Captain.”

Petrov nods. “Thanks. Hope you like fast puck movement. We don’t hang onto it long.”

Ryan half-smiles. “Perfect. I’ll keep my head up.”

Petrov glances at me, waiting for the next part of the introduction. I step forward, stomachchurning and heart racing. I’m close now and my eyes meet Ryan’s. Bile rises in my throat as he looks directly at me for the first time in fourteen years.

I hold my breath. Wait for it. The widening eyes. The uncomfortable shift. The awkward, “Wait... Gabriel? Gabriel Jacobs? Is… is that really you?” I wait for abject shame to wash over his handsome features as he remembers who I am, and what he did to me all those years ago.

Instead, Ryan’s face brightens with a smile that looks genuinely pleased to meet me. “Ryan Caldwell,” he says, extending his hand with easy confidence. “Really excited to be here, man. I’ve been watching your highlights. You’ve got incredible instincts on the ice.”

Wait. What?

I stare at his outstretched hand like it’s a live grenade. I’m in shock as I realize what’s happening. The motherfucker has no idea who I am. None. I’m just another face to him, another new teammate to charm and impress. The kid he tormented for two years straight, the kid he mocked, shoved, humiliated, called names, the kid whose name he used to spit like a curse, might as well have never existed. He obviously doesn’t exist anymore in Ryan’s charmed world.

Something hot and jagged tears through my chest. Not relief, though there’s some of that. Not disappointment, though that’s there too. It’s rage.Pure, crystalline rage that after everything he put me through, after the sleepless nights and the anxiety attacks and the years of therapy, I wasn’t even important enough toremember.

Coach squints at me. “You okay, kid?”

“Uh… yeah,” I manage, although my voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Gabe Jacobs.” I sound robotic as I take his hand, only because I have to, because my teammates are watching, because I’m supposed to be a professional.

His grip is firm, warm, confident. The same hand that used to shove me into lockers now shaking mine like we’re strangers meeting for the first time. He’s looking at me like he respects me. Wants to know me better. Thinks I’m worthy of his fucking time.

“Speak up, Jacobs.” The coach laughs nervously when I continue to stand like a statue. “I think he must be starstruck meeting you, Caldwell.”

I shake myself out of my stupor. “Welcome to Sierra Point,” I mumble, the words tasting like ash. What I want to do is lunge at him and put my hands around his tanned throat. I want to squeeze and squeeze until his tongue hangs out and his fucking eyeballs pop out of his head. My fingers literally itch with the need to wipe that fucking grin off his fucking smug fucking face.

But Ryan’s smile just widens, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside of me. “Thanks, man. Really looking forward to working with you. I heard you and Petrov have incredible chemistry. Hoping I can fit into that dynamic.”

He’s talking about hockey. About line combinations and on-ice chemistry. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in the surreal nightmare of being treated like a stranger by the person who shaped my entire adolescence through cruelty and indifference.

Part of me wants to grab him by the shoulders and scream:It’s me, asshole. Gabriel Jacobs. Remember me now?The other part wants to melt into the ice and disappear entirely.

Instead, I stand there with what I hope passes for a professional smile, nodding along as he talks about goals and assists and team chemistry. I pray my polite mask is projecting confidence, because inside I’m that eleven-year-old kid again, invisible and worthless and apparently so unremarkable that even mytormentorcan’t be bothered to remember my fucking name.

But then again, I wasn’t a person to him. I was just Blubber Boy.

“Ryan’s coming to us from Chicago,” Coach explains. “Thirty-four goals last season, plus-eighteen rating. He’s here to put us over the edge.”

---