Page 91 of The Fake Play

Out of the shadows, Lucas emerges. He skates at the far end of the rink, his gaze locked on me with the look of someone ready to prove a point. I haven’t seen him since he was kicked from the team.

Esai skates up to us, clipboard in hand, his expression neutral as he looks between us. “Alright, boys. Same rules as always. Clean race, and I don’t want to see any cheap moves, understood?”

I nod but Lucas asks, “Why were you looking at me when you said that?” Esai arches a brow and I’m inclined to join him, but Lucas’ smirk lets us know he was teasing. “Too soon?”

“Funny,” Esai says flatly. “To your marks.”

This is it. No team, no crowd, no distractions. Just the two of us. We skate to the cones on the ice and crouch into a starting position.

Esai raises his hand, the silence stretching out thick and heavy, the only sound the faint hum of the arena lights overhead.

He drops his hand.

I take off like a bullet, every muscle in my body pushing, propelling me forward with everything I have. The skates feel like an extension of myself, every stride smooth and powerful, a rhythm I’d honed over the years, through sweat, endless injuries, and a relentless drive to be the best. I knew Lucas was behind me, his presence like a phantom I could feel without seeing, but I didn’t look back. This was my race, my chance to leave everything on the ice, and I wasn’t holding back.

The finish line approaches, the end of the strip looming closer, and I push harder, faster. My legs and lungs burn, a sensation I’d come to associate with success. I cross the line with a triumphant surge, a full second ahead of him, my skates skidding as I come to a stop, my breath heavy but steady.

I won.

I turn to see Lucas slowing to a stop, his chest heaving as he comes up beside me, a resigned expression on his face as he takes in the distance between us. I can see it in his eyes—the acknowledgment, the acceptance. This was a race he couldn’t argue with, a victory he couldn’t contest. He bends down, his hands on his knees as he gasps for breath.

I wait until I think he can stand again and hold out a hand, ready to end this once and for all. I brace for another sucker punch as I say, “Good race.”

For a second, he hesitates, his gaze dropping to my hand, as though unsure if he wants to take it. But then he reaches out,gripping my hand in a firm shake. “Maybe you’re not such an asshole after all.”

I let out a tense laugh, shaking my head. “Between the two of us, I’m the asshole?”

He smiles, and it could be the first time I’ve ever seen a real smile on his face. “To be honest, I thought you were going to have the team jump out of the dark and beat the shit out of me.”

I glance sideways at him, raising an eyebrow. “So, why’d you come?”

“Assuming you were being straight with me and this wasn’t an ambush,” he lets out a sigh, looking away for a second before meeting my gaze again, “I had to know who was better.”

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. This kid really was me, just a younger version with a worse temper. I can understand that—I would have done the same in his skates. Athletic pride had brought him here. We both had something to prove to ourselves and we both wanted to know where we stood, even if it meant risking a bruised ego or a bruised body.

“We have more in common than just our names,” I tell him. “That’s why I texted you.”

He looks at me, his expression softening. “I respect that. I thought… well, I thought it was gonna go differently.”

“So did I, if I’m honest.”

He chuckles. “But you had to know.”

“I had to know.”

For a second, we just stand there, two men with too much in common. Remorse haunts his eyes, but I know he’ll never apologize. Words like that aren’t in his vocabulary. Maybe if he hadn’t gotten himself booted from the league, I might have been able to help him gain some maturity.

The look on his face is acknowledgment enough of the damage he’s done, and I know this is as close to an apology as I’ll get. I decide that’s enough to satisfy my need for one.

He takes a step back, his expression turning serious. “I didn’t mean to actually hurt you, Luke. I wasn’t trying to, that wasn’t why I did it. It wasn’t personal. I know it was personal for you…” He struggles with his words, like he wants to say a thousand things at once. I know the feeling. He goes on, “I see red sometimes when I’m angry, and I can’t control it. It’s like something else takes over. I can’t even think when it happens. There was nothing in my head in that moment, other than I knew you were my enemy. That ever happen to you?”

I study him, understanding the intensity behind those words. I know what it’s like to have anger boil over, to let it push you too far. But hockey isn’t the place for uncontrolled rage or the kind of recklessness that blurred the line between competition and violence for him.

“When I was younger, I got into some scraps. Nothing like what happened here but I’ve seen that kind of anger before. I know it’s hard to handle. And I’m sure you miss being on the ice, but maybe it’s a good thing you’re out of the game, because that’s not what hockey’s about.”

He nods, a slight frown creasing his brow as he looks down. “Yeah. Guess you’re right. I need fewer rules.”

“That’s not what I meant?—”

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