Page 10 of Racking Up Penalties
“Obviously,” I reply, my response clipped. I came here to play, not make friends. The chill from my teammates is something I was prepared for.
Their skepticism is a tangible barrier, an invisible line on the ice that separates “them” from “me.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got, transfer boy,” Luka calls out, a challenging spark in his eyes.
“Bring it,” I shoot back, meeting his gaze head-on. If it’s a test they want, it’s a test they’ll get.
We all warm up while waiting for Coach to show up.
“Nice shot,” I say, clapping Miles on the back as I skate past. He grunts, not looking up, but I don’t let it deter me. “I’ve seen your stats. Impressive.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, and though it’s not much, I’ll take it. A starting point.
“You better still have the speed you’re known for,” Luka taunts.
“Slow isn’t in my vocabulary,” I quip, leaning in with a grin.
“Clearly, neither is modesty,” JD pipes up from across the room, and a few chuckles break out among the team. Alright, so they’ve got jokes. Good to know.
“Modesty doesn’t score goals,” I shoot back, locking eyes with JD. He’s got this quiet intensity about him, like he’s constantly analyzing the play even when he’s off the ice.
“Neither does arrogance,” Alec chimes in, and there’s a murmur of agreement. I let out a short laugh, pretending it doesn’t sting.
“Arrogance, confidence—call it what you want. I’m here to win games for Eastwood,” I state, my voice firm. Let them see the steel in my resolve. Let them understand I’m not here to play nice, I’m here to play hard.
Liam is staring at me without adding anything and I like it that way.
Chapter 6
Ethan has a smug tilt to his lips as if he’s doing us all a favor just by gracing us with his presence.
Turning away, I focus on the task at hand, but my thoughts churn like a relentless storm. This is my team. We’ve built something special here, a bond that’s carried us through last season’s nail-biters and into this year’s hopes. And Ethan… Ethan could unravel it all with his mere presence.
There’s this intense hatred for the guy that simmers under my skin. I can’t help it. He’s always had everything. It’s like he effortlessly skated through life while I fought for every puck, every grade, every scrap of respect.
“Johnson, you good?” one of my teammates, Reed, asks, breaking through my brooding thoughts.
“Never better,” I lie, flashing him a grin that feels more like a grimace.
Grabbing my stick, I head for the rink with the rest of the guys trailing behind me. I’m not just Liam Johnson here, the kid on scholarship. Here, I’m a co-captain. A leader. And I’ll be damned if I let Ethan Matthews disrupt the chemistry we’ve fought so hard to build.
As we start drills, I can’t shake the animosity clawing at the edges of my focus. Every pass, every shot—I pour my frustration into them. If Ethan’s going to play on this ice, he’s going to have to learn that it’s not just about skill. It’s about heart. It’s about family. And he’s got a hell of a lot to prove before I consider him part of either.
The coach’s whistle pierces the cold air, slicing through the tension that’s settled over the rink like a thick fog. He skates to center ice with a wide grin plastered on his face, oblivious to the tension swirling among us.
He’s a tall, black man with a strong build and friendly eyes that seem to radiate warmth.
Coach Benson took over as head coach in the middle of last season and helped lead us to a championship. The first questionable decision he’s made was bringing Ethan here.
“Alright, listen up!” he bellows. “We’ve got a new addition to our ranks—Ethan Matthews. I expect everyone to give him a warm Eastwood welcome.”
There’s a smattering of claps, but they lack conviction. Eyes dart in my direction; I can feel the weight of their gazes, heavy with unspoken questions. They know there’s history here but the real details are a mystery to them.
“Team chemistry is what wins games,” Coach continues, clasping his hands behind his back. “Pre-season is where we build it. So let’s get to work!”
The team converges back into formation, and as I skate to my spot, I catch Ethan’s brown eyes locked onto mine, unreadable. I tear my gaze away, focusing on the puck at my feet.
Practice kicks off, and I’m hyper-aware of every move Ethan makes. He’s good, I’d be a fool to deny it, but there’s a flair to his play that grates on my nerves. He holds onto the puck for one stride too many and goes for the flashy deke instead of the smart pass. It’s like he’s playing for the scouts, not the team.
