Page 32 of Misconducts & Temptation

“I’m not the one who won an achievement award and married a redhead all within the span of two weeks,” I said, lining up another shot. The puck skidded wide again, clattering off the boards.

“Jealous?” Morgan's smirk was infuriatingly smug.

Actually, I was. Deep down, there was a part of me that craved what he had—a sense of accomplishment, someone who loved him. But I pushed those thoughts down. Acceptance wasn’t something I’d ever have.

I took another shot. The puck sailed past the goal again.

“You trying to miss the net?” Thomas's voice held a hint of mockery.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I focused on retrieving another puck, feeling my frustration simmering beneath the surface. Morgan had always been able to get under my skin with just a few words. It was part of what made him a brilliant coach but also what made him insufferable to deal with.

I lined up another shot, feeling the tension coil in my shoulders. Morgan’s eyes bore into me, his presence a constant reminder of the pressure I couldn’t shake.

“Your stance is off,” he said, stepping onto the ice. “You’re too stiff. Loosen up.”

I gritted my teeth but adjusted my position, anyway. The puck slid effortlessly into the net, a perfect shot. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel a flicker of satisfaction.

Morgan gave me a long look, one eyebrow raised. “I heard Toronto and Blackwater are interested,” he said, his tone casual. “Texas too.”

I grunted, grabbing another puck. The names of those teams felt like distant dreams—ones I couldn’t afford to chase.

“You going to the draft later this month?” he asked, skating closer.

“Fuck if I know,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze.

“Why the hell not?” Thomas’s voice was sharp. “You’ve worked hard enough.”

“What’s the point?” I snapped back. “Not like I’m going to get picked.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “You’ve got talent, Keaton. More than most.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my father.” I shot another puck, the force behind it fueled by frustration.

“Your father doesn’t define your worth,” Morgan replied, his voice steady but intense. “You do. And if you don’t believe in yourself, why should anyone else?”

I clenched my jaw, fighting back the anger bubbling up inside me. It wasn’t just about the draft or hockey—it was everything weighing down on me like an anchor.

“You’ve spent your whole life letting others dictate your future,” he continued. “It’s time you took control.”

I scoffed but felt a sting of truth in his words.

“You think you’re the only one who’s had it tough?” he asked, his voice softening slightly. “Life doesn’t hand out guarantees, Keaton. But you’ve got a shot here—don’t waste it.”

I stared at him for a moment, absorbing what he said. There was no pity in his eyes, just a fierce determination that mirrored my own.

With a deep breath, I lined up another shot, focusing on everything Morgan had drilled into me over the years. The puck sailed into the net effortlessly.

Maybe he was right.

But admitting that felt like another battle altogether.

Morgan skated closer, his eyes locked on mine with that same unyielding intensity that always made me feel exposed. “You ever wonder why I picked you for the team four years ago?” he asked, his voice low and challenging.

I shrugged, keeping my gaze on the ice. “My last name? Or maybe my father slipped you a check.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d sell out for money?”

I didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes.

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