EVANDER

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THWACK!

The puck slams against the wall, missing the post by several inches.

The ice cracks under its force.

My breath catches as headlights flash through the empty rink, blinding me for a second.

I don't have my helmet on, and the midnight cold bites my skin.

A huff blows through my lips. I swear under my breath.

Twentieth shot tonight. Missed.

My fingers brush the worn chess piece in my pocket.

Hockey is supposed to be my sure thing.

I am supposed to play with strategy, precision, and control, just like I do in chess.

And yet, here I am, missing shot after shot like a rookie.

I try again.

Another bloody miss.

But worse this time.

The puck ricochets dangerously close, almost hitting me in the face.

I flinch, my heart pounding.

Frustration tightens its claws around my neck.

I slam my stick down.

My feet move as I skate back and forth, running a hand through my hair to keep myself from screaming.

I take the queen out of my pocket and tap it against my palm.

There are three things I love most in the world: hockey, chess, and women.

Life used to be simple.

One-night-stands without strings. Victories on the ice, victories on the board. Grentwood Icewolves, my teammates, my brothers. Attention from lecturers, girls, NHL.

Life was perfect.

Until she showed up.

Reyna Davidson.

The memory of the first time I set my eyes on her plays in my head. The way she frowned in response to my—usually—disarming smile, then stood up and quietly walked away.

I knew then that she was different. She is different.

That blonde streak in her ginger hair, the way her cheeks flare when she’s angry, making her freckles stand out more.

I’m smiling. Dammit. Fuck.

I twist the queen.

“Every move matters, son.” My late father's voice booms in my head.

I drag my legs to the bench, taking a sheet of paper out of my bag. The season has started already, and I still haven't drafted the team roster, like Coach asked me to.

I scold myself. Get your head in the game, Evander.

Her words echo in my head: “Don't flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”

I scoff. Not her type? My jaw clenches.

That disciplinary board situation? I suggested the project. I knew my reputation would make the dean bend.

Not because I wanted to help her but because my ego was bruised. Because she hit it.

The sound of skates scraping the ice pulls me from my thoughts.

A figure glides across.

Tall, blonde hair, athletic build. I groan as his smirking face comes into view.

Koshen Ron, captain and lead idiot of our number one rival college team: Brookbridge Breakaways.

He holds his stick across both his shoulders.

“I saw your ten thousand missed shots, and I must say,” He tilts his head, smirk widening. “Careful, Gabriel. Your crown looks loose.”

“Not in the mood, Koshen,” I growl, and that only edges him on.

“Funny. You play better with an audience. Or maybe just not thinking about Reyna.”

At the sound of her name, my gaze locks onto his, fury blazing in my veins. I clench my fists.

He chuckles.

Then lowers his stick and flicks my puck across the rink.

It hits the goal in one effortless shot.

Bloody hell!

A vein ticks in my neck, straining against my skin.

I pick up my bag, get up, and leave before I do something that would get me benched for a week.

~~~

Slamming the door shut, I shove into my dorm and sling my bag onto the bed, harder than I mean to.

My hand reaches for my water bottle on my bedside cupboard, and I chug the water down furiously, in hopes that it will cool the burn in my chest.

But that proves to be a terrible idea when I feel the force of the water tighten and hook in my throat.

My face reddens as I cough, water splattering all over my jersey, soaking into my chest.

Fuck.

I feel my chest rise and fall in heaves.

Abruptly, my phone lights up on the bed. I look down.

It’s a video call from… Eliza.

My bones freeze, and my throat tightens even more.

Letting go of the water bottle, I let my body collapse into a sitting position on the bed.

I grasp the phone with shaking hands.

It's 12:22 AM. A call from my thirteen-year-old sister at this time can only mean one thing.

My hand hovers over the accept button, trembling terribly.

Just one touch and I will be back in that world I keep buried. That world the spotlight must never see.

That world that I can't shield my little sister from.

I press the green button to find a scene that sends a knife stabbing into my chest.

My sister sits crouched on the floor of her bedroom with its pink walls and butterfly stickers that we painted and put up together.

“Vander…” she sniffles, her voice cracking in a soft whisper. “They are fighting again.”

The knife twists.

My mother and her father—my stepfather—are fighting again. Their voices filter faintly through her closed door.

It's been this way since my biological father died and my mother remarried.

I go down on my knees by my bed, kneeling beside her through the screen.

“Eliza,” I gulp to keep my voice from breaking. “Go lie on your bed, okay?”

She nods, moving to her bed as silent tears continue to streak her beautiful face.

She is like a female reflection of me. Same black hair and ice-blue eyes.

“You… you want me to sing the lullaby?”

Eliza nods, and in a second, my voice fills both our rooms.

Deep, gravelly, but quivering with anguish for what my beloved sister has to endure.

Pain clouds my vision. It feels like my heart is going to burst.

I gulp and try to keep it together. Eliza can't see me break. That would break her.

But my voice cracks and I forget a line.

I expect her to frown, but instead, she erupts into giggles, through her tears. “Vander, you forgot the line again”

A wry smile spreads over my lips “Your brother's not really smart”

Eliza wipes her face.

“But I love him like that.” She says

Then hugs the teddy I gave her for her birthday, yawning. “I love you, Vander.”

The reply almost doesn't come out, stifled by the ache and sorrow bubbling in my heart.

By the time I say “I love you too, Eliza,” she is fast asleep.

I end the call.

Still on my knees, I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling moisture on my face.

A tear slips down my cheek.

Koshen’s words echo in the void of my head, heavier than when he said them: “Careful, Gabriel. Your crown looks loose.”

I lied. There are four things I love most in this world.

The fourth is my sister, Eliza.

She’s the only reason I fight. The only reason I breathe.

And yet… when I close my eyes, it’s not just Eliza’s face I see. I see hers too.

Reyna Davidson.

The one distraction I cannot afford.