Page 50 of Racking Up Penalties
“Guys,” I start, my voice steady despite the butterflies doing somersaults in my stomach. “I can’t thank you enough. Liam, these shots are going to be incredible because of you.” I lock eyes with him, his gray gaze reflecting the same intensity that he brings to every game on the ice. “You’ve got a real gift.”
He shrugs modestly but his lips twitch into a pleased smile. “Anything for you, Tessa. These designs deserve to be seen.”
“Seriously, you guys rocked it today,” I continue, my voice hitching with emotion. “Seeing my creations on you—it’s made everything feel so real.”
“Ready to go?” Liam asks, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. His casual demeanor does little to mask the protective glint in his eye, a look I’ve come to cherish.
“Absolutely,” I reply, my voice strong. The gratitude I feel for them is immeasurable, but it’s the excitement for what comes next that propels me forward. The photo shoot was just the beginning. With their encouragement, the sky’s the limit.
“Let’s celebrate,” suggests Tristan and the idea is met with immediate enthusiasm.
“Lead the way,” I say with a laugh, stepping out into the night with them flanking me protectively. The cool air kisses my cheeks, and I tilt my face up to the stars. There’s a universe of possibilities up there, and I’m ready to reach for every single one.
Chapter 23
The chill of the ice permeates the locker room even before I step onto the rink. This is it, the first game of the season at Eastwood, and the stakes are high.
Things have been good since the ski trip. Liam and I are getting along which means the team is accepting me. Liam and I are taking Tessa to watch Tristan play tomorrow.
I stride over to my locker, ignoring the low hum of my teammates’ chatter. My fingers work methodically, pulling on each piece of gear. Shin guards snap into place, shoulder pads settle heavy on my frame, and the jersey slides over my head, a second skin that bears my identity. Ethan Matthews, number seventeen, ready to make a mark.
“Hey, Matthews,” Liam’s voice cuts through the pre-game din, easygoing and laced with a subtle warmth. He leans against the row of lockers.
“Johnson,” I reply, giving him a nod and forcing my lips to curve upwards. “You psyched for the game?”
“Always am.” His grin is infectious, and despite myself, I find the corners of my mouth twitching in response. There’s something about Liam that’s disarmingly genuine.
“Think you’ll be able to keep up with me out there?” I tease, trying to keep the mood light. We both know we’re good, but my competitive streak can’t resist the jab.
“Keep up?” Liam laughs, and it’s a clear, bright sound. “I’m planning on leaving you in the dust, Matthews.”
“Good luck with that,” I retort, but the laughter bubbling from my chest is real, not forced. This camaraderie is new.
We lean into a strategy talk, discussing plays we’ve mastered during practice. Liam’s insight is sharp, his gray eyes sparking with intelligence as we dissect our opponents’ weaknesses. I appreciate his perspective more than I thought possible.
“Remember, they’re weak on the left wing,” he points out, tracing an invisible line on the floor with his skate. “Exploit that.”
“Got it,” I acknowledge.
It’s weird, standing here with Liam, sharing a laugh. It’s not something I’ve done often—not with him, not with anyone. Dad always said that focus means cutting out distractions, including unnecessary friendships, but right now, as I let go and interact with Liam, it feels… right. Like maybe I’ve been missing out.
Liam claps me on the back. “Let’s go show them what we’re made of,” he says, determination lighting his gaze.
I’m about to strap on my helmet when the locker room door swings open with a force that turns every head. My dad strides in, his presence slicing through the pre-game murmur like a skate blade over fresh ice. My stomach lurches, nerves and excitement are instantly replaced by a familiar dread.
“Ethan,” he calls out, voice booming, eyes scanning until they land on me. His gaze is like a spotlight I can’t escape, and I straighten up, trying to appear unbothered. “Good luck today, son.” The words might seem encouraging if not for the edge in his tone, the one that says he’s always watching, always judging.
“Thanks.” My reply is tense as I grip my stick tighter, willing myself to shake off the unease his presence brings.
He steps further into the room, and I see Liam’s shoulders tense. Dad’s eyes shift, locking on to Liam with an almost predatory focus. “Johnson, still pretending you’re cut out for this league?”
The team falls silent, the air thickening. Liam ignores him but I can see that the words hurt him.
“Dad-” I start but he cuts me off.
“Let’s hope you don’t drag my son down with you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, anger bubbling under the surface. This isn’t new, Dad’s harshness is a constant shadow over my life, but seeing it aimed at Liam, who stands tall despite the dig, twists my insides. It’s unfair, unwarranted, and it makes something snap inside me.
