Page 7 of Blitz
Breathe.
Atlanta management had traded me as I’d asked—but then, I’d planted so much on social media and messed up so badly last year, it was an easy sell—anything to get out of Georgia, but of all the teams in the league, why the Rainbow Railers? Dad had been pissed. He’d given me a full-throttle lecture about the sins of same-sex anything, Bible-thumping his way into a damnfrenzy, warning I’d go to hell if I let their ways divert me from my righteous blah blah blah. I agreed with it all because that was what he wanted me to say. But the worst part was always the same, when he told me it wasn’t the sinner’s fault—that the devil was in them.
I had this complicated relationship with faith—I wasn’t sure I believed anything anymore. Because if any of it was true, then surely there was a reason I was made the way I was? Wasn’t it his fault for what I wanted and couldn’t stop thinking about when the lights were off and I was alone with myself? Dad would say it’s temptation. A test. Something evil was hiding in the corners of my soul. But if it was wicked, why did it feel like the only genuine part of me? Why did it feel like the truth?
I didn’t know what to believe anymore—and I was tired of trying to reconcile the different versions of me I saw in the mirror.
“I have a sister.” The paperwork showed a genetic match between Cole Harrington II and this girl I’d never heard of, and it blew my fucking mind.
Dad was all smoke and mirrors on camera, a polished salesman for salvation who made a brand out of faith. He preached love and purity to millions while shaming anyone who didn’t fit into his neat little narrative. I always thought he at least believed in Mom, that he was faithful to her until she died. That illusion—that maybe one thing about him was real—was the last thread I’d clung to. It turned out that even that was a lie.
I wondered if Rebecca ever shortened her name to Becca or Becky? I wondered if her mom was kind.
I hoped she’d been happier than me.
I smoothed gel in my hair to give it that tidy, but tousled, magic, then blew myself a kiss. Fuck my head. I was Cole Harrington the damn Third, and I was somebody.
Iamsomebody.
Somebody with a sister and a whole new set of issues with my parents.
I headed out to the next Railers happy-clappy shit I had to go to, but the closer my custom-made Lamborghini got, the more I tensed. Not only was there a guard at the gate who checked my ID before letting me in, but this place was bigger than the place I lived in. Shinier. New money, not old, stunning with glass floor-to-ceiling windows, views over Harrisburg Lake, and an expansive front yard with a ridiculous fountain. Who the fuck on the team owned this?
I parked beside a sweet lava-orange Porsche 911 Turbo S; it was a beast. Zero to sixty in two-point-six seconds, top-tier German engineering, sleek as hell—but my Lambo had it beat. Two-point-four seconds flat, more torque, more raw edge. The Porsche was nice, but mine? Mine turned heads, made hearts race.
Made me think I was something special.
Made the sacrifices worth it.
I followed the noise into the backyard, and the first thing that hit me was the heat and the high-pitched squeals of sugar-fueled kids in the pool. It was big, shaded by strategically planted trees as if someone had curated the scene for a lifestyle magazine. A pool house sat at the edge with one glass wall folded open like some modern art installation.
People were everywhere—too many. Players I vaguely recognized from previous painful social things or awkward preseason meetings. Wives and girlfriends clustered in small groups, fawning over their guys like they were gods, probably laughing at every dumb joke. And so many kids. Running, splashing, crying, laughing. It was chaos.
And none of it made sense to me.
What the hell am I doing here?
“Trick!” I whirled to face my nemesis, Noah Gunnerson, as he stalked over to me. He was constantly pulling me into group chats, always smiling, nodding along to everyone with his stupid head of blond curls. He was dragging someone along with him. “Welcome to our home!”
Oh. Okay then. This was Noah and Brody Vance’s place—of course it was. Noah, who was always so freaking nice, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even after what had happened after the last game we’d met at when I’d cut him dead. What he could never know was that my dad had been watching that game, eyes glued to every second, searching for ways I might fail his version of righteousness. If I’d spoken to a queer man on camera, even just nodded, he would’ve cornered me afterward with a lecture on sin and appearances, about how standing next to“people like that”was enough to taint me. He would say I was slipping, that the devil was working through me, using kindness and tolerance as bait. And I never argued. For too long, I believed I was wrong. It didn’t matter how many times I ignored Noah, or how much of an asshole I was on ice, he stayed calm. Relentlessly, stupidly, ridiculously nice.
We could possibly be friends if things were different and I wasn’t so messed up.
“Gunny,” I said, gripping his hand firmly, maybe a little too tightly, like I was trying to prove something. Then, I shook Brody’s—cool, measured, trying not to let on that I was impressed, overwhelmed by the chaos and the house and the genuine smiles I was getting from people who had no reason to be kind to the new guy after what they’d read about me and my family. The hatred that had been spewed, aimed at some of the people here—they had to be talking about it. About me.
“Drinks over there, food in an hour, barbecue, hope that’s okay. Swimming there,” Gunny snickered as he pointed at thepool full of kids and leaned into Brody, who held him close and kissed his cheek. “Kinda obvious, right?”
“Just a bit, babe.” Brody laughed. “Nice to meet you, Trick,” he added to me. “Noah’s told me a lot about you.”
“Cool.” I gave my standard reply. “Bathroom?”
Noah blinked at me—that was not how social interaction worked, and I knew that, but I was tired already. Then, he grinned. “There and there, and also inside by the kitchen.”
“Cool.” Then, I walked away purposefully and hid in the kitchen with my phone, finding the quietest corner I could. The house smelled like money—clean citrus and polished brass candlesticks or whatever rich racers hoarded. I leaned against the marble island, phone in hand, pretending to scroll.
People laughed in the next room. Kids squealed outside. The muffled splash of water and someone’s deep belly laugh filtered through the open doors. I didn’t belong here. Not with the happy families and the picture-perfect power couple hosting it all. Not with the team, who’d probably already written me off as the arrogant asshole from Atlanta before we even touched the ice as a team. If only they knew how much of an act I had to put on just to make it through five minutes, let alone an entire event like this.
I hated how small I felt, tucked in this oversized kitchen as if I was dodging eye contact in a school cafeteria, and I couldn’t fake the smile.
