Page 14 of Head Over Skates

I hate him. I really do. Not just for Jaime’s sake. The way he treated her. But because he’s simply horrible. I would have come to that conclusion myself even without all those tears Jaime wasted on him.

Yet, as I weigh the consequences in my mind, I realize that I have no choice but to comply. In order to protect myself and the life I have built, I will have to sacrifice my integrity. I’ll write that blog post. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with it.

"Fine," I spit out. "But remember this,Owen. Manipulating others may get you what you want in the short term, but it will never fulfill you in the long run."

His eyes flicker with a mix of surprise and curiosity, but he quickly masks it with an impish grin.

"We'll see about that, Emily," he replies cryptically before turning on his heel and gliding away across the ice.

We’ll see indeed.

6

OWEN

There are not a lot of people in this world I despise. True, the things my dad did screwed me up for life, not to mention Cyrus and all the other people he’s messed with. I don’t hate him, though. I’d rather forget he exists, but what I feel is not hate.

The handful of people I’ve crossed paths with over the years who’d really pissed me off are out of my life now. I hardly remember any of their names.

Then there’s Emily.

She gets under my skin in a way I can’t explain. Thoughts of her pop up in the most inconvenient moments. When I’m having an innocent sandwich, there she is, taunting me with those whiskey eyes and sparkling wit. The other day as I passed Nathan Phillips Square, the reflecting pool, a smooth sheet of ice in the winter months, I imagined her there and it provoked something so heated in me. So I decided to take the long way home from the arena from now on. Even during this morning’s drills, I got irrationally livid and cussed so loudly, even Coach Knight raised an eyebrow. And believe me, nothing surprises him.

Emily kept her promise to write “good” things about me in last night’s blog post. But she worded it in such a way, all the praise read more like back-handed compliments.

All I could think of was, “Well played, Brooks. Well played.” And something inside me swelled at how freaking clever she is, as though she’s become my worthy rival in a video game. However, as much as she stirs something in me that makes me want to jackhammer walls, this thing between us is far from hate. The way my body reacts whenever she’s near—I’d say it’s definitely not hate.

Hate, if I can use such a strong word, is reserved for a special class of person. And if a genie appeared to me right now and granted me a wish to exile anyone to a desert island with no way off, I can only think of one guy. And that would be Quebec City’s defenseman, Georges Lemieux. Okay, not just him. I’d send the whole damn team away, including the head coach, because he’s a weasel. As a matter of fact, I happen to know Coach Knight has his own personal vendetta against Quebec’s coach, Claude Rousseau.

The pre-game rituals are in full swing as we gear up to face Quebec tonight. I go through my usual groove, like how I always lace my left skate before my right, or tape my stick with the same precise technique I've used since high school. The familiar routine helps to steady my racing thoughts, and I take a deep breath, trying to push away all distractions.

We all have our own superstitions and rituals, from lucky socks to pre-game mantras. But one thing's for sure, we're all focused on one goal: winning.

Tonight's game is crucial. We're only two points behind Quebec in the standings, and a win tonight could put us in a prime position for the playoffs. But it won't be easy. Quebec has been dominating the competition, but I am fueled by a fierce determination to destroy them, and especially Georges Lemieux.

As I imagine kicking his ass, my muscles flex and my adrenaline pumps through me. Sure, he might be able to intimidate other teams, but I'm about to turn his winning streak into a losing streak so bad, he'll be begging for mercy and a plastic participation trophy.

The dressing room is buzzing with excitement as my teammates and I get ready to hit the ice. Coach Knight calls us together for a final pep talk. His voice booms with authority, but there's an underlying fire in his eyes that speaks of something more personal. He knows what this game means to all of us, especially to him.

“Listen up, boys,” he begins, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. “Tonight, we're not just playing hockey. We're going to war, and our battlefield is the ice. You all know who's waiting on the other side—those damn Nordiques. I don't care about the history, the stats, or the records. What matters is what's happening tonight, right here, right now. This is our time. Our ice. Our game. I want to see heart out there, the kind of heart that beats red and black. You've been through hell and back together, and tonight, you're going to leave everything on that rink. You'll fight for every inch, every puck, and every goal.”

The whole team grunts and nods their heads in agreement. We're all eager to get out there and take down Quebec.

Coach Knight continues, "We know they like to play dirty. Well, they've got another thing coming. We're the Toronto Titans, and we don't back down. We hit hard, we skate fast, and we leave it all on the ice."

He looks around at each of us before adding, “And remember, tonight is personal for me, too. That son of a cow Rousseau wants my head for his trophy room. So go out there and play for the name on the front of your jersey, not the one on the back.”

I glance at Sawyer, who nods silently beside me, that goofy look on his face triggering a memory of when we first met—young and stupid. We've come a long way since then, and tonight is our chance to show everyone what we're made of.

And then, for some reason, it got me thinking about Emily. Like, out of nowhere, and I feel this urge to prove myself to her. Can't explain it, so I shove it way, way down. She pretty much messed up the assignment in every way possible, but instead of confronting her about it, I’ve been avoiding her all day. Oh, I mean to make her fix it, but talking to her before the game does nothing but distract me. She’s like an itch… the kind you just want to get rid of. But the more you scratch, the worse the burn on your skin. I’m already hot and bothered just thinking about it.

Coach ends his pep talk with his usual chant. “Titans on three! One, two, three, TITANS!”

With a resounding hoot, we all hit our sticks against the ground in unison. It's time.

As we step onto the ice amidst a roar of cheers from the crowd, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. The rivalry is palpable, charging the air with an intensity like nothing else. The puck drops, and chaos ensues as bodies collide and sticks clash.

Lemieux taunts me from across the rink, his smirk infuriatingly arrogant. Damn, he’s ugly—with one tooth missing, and that thin, pasty face, he looks like aCanada’s Most Wantedposter. I’d say it’s a face only a mother could love, but I’m pretty sure he was dropped off at a zoo as a baby and raised by baboons. The mean kind with red butts.

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