Page 79 of Misconducts & Temptation

The path blurred as I marched toward Pandora's Box. Each step resonated with the pounding in my chest, echoing my frustration. Crestwood Academy's manicured lawns and grand buildings meant nothing when my mind was a storm. The campus was a gilded cage, and I was its most prized prisoner.

The moment I pushed through the double doors of Pandora's Box, the familiar chill of the ice rink hit me, a welcome I couldn't acknowledge. The air was crisp, almost biting, and the smell of ice and rubber filled my nostrils. The rink stretched out in front of me, an expanse of pristine white marred only by faint scuffs from practice sessions. It was a place that demanded precision and control, qualities I usually thrived on.

Rows of seats surrounded the rink, empty now but capable of holding hundreds of spectators who came to watch us dominate. The overhead lights bathed the ice in a harsh, clinical glow, casting long shadows that danced with every movement. Banners hung from the rafters, boasting our victories and reminding everyone of Crestwood’s legacy—a legacy I was expected to uphold.

The Titans' locker room door stood at the far end. It felt like miles away as I made my way across the rink's polished surface. My skates would have glided effortlessly here, but in my shoes, every step seemed heavier, dragging me down into a vortex of obligation and expectation.

Inside the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and leather greeted me. Wooden benches lined the walls beneath rows of metal lockers, each one marked with a player's name and number. My locker stood out—number 88—a symbol of strength and control on the ice, attributes I felt slipping away off it.

I found Ashton in the locker room, bent over, unlacing his skates. His face was flushed, likely from a recent skate, and sweat dampened his hair. The moment he saw me, his smirk vanished.

“Keaton,” he began, but I cut him off with a punch to his fucking stupid-ass mouth.

“What the fu?—?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing with Elodie?” My voice echoed off the metal lockers, each word a bullet aimed at him.

He straightened up slowly, hands hovering between going for his laces and putting them back up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” I growled, stepping closer. “You’ve been sniffing around her, and I don’t like it.”

He chuckled, a sound that grated on my nerves. “Since when do you care about Elodie? She’s just the locker room attendant.”

“She’s more than that, and you fucking know it,” I snapped. “You better stay away from her. Don't fuck with her, Ash.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think you can tell me what to do?”

“I know I can,” I replied, my voice low and dangerous. “You mess with her again, and you’ll regret it. It's a fucking promise."

He stood up, tossing his skates into his locker with a careless clatter. “Why do you care so much? She’s just another girl.”

“Because she’s not yours to fuck with,” I said through gritted teeth. “To touch. To fucking look at her.”

“And she’s yours?” He sneered.

My fists clenched at my sides, every muscle in my body screaming for release. “Consider this your only warning.”

Ashton stepped closer, invading my space. “Or what?”

The tension between us was palpable, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. My hands itched to wipe that smug look off his face, but I held back—barely. I wanted to see what he would do… what he would say.

Would he really be stupid enough to get me to punch him again?

Fucking child.

“Try me,” I said quietly.

He snickered, his laughter a knife twisting in my gut. “You never gave a damn about anyone but yourself, Keaton. Now you’re all worked up over some locker room attendant?”

“She’s my wife,” I growled, the words tasting bitter yet resolute on my tongue.

“Yeah, something else that doesn’t make sense,” he snapped back, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. “You had Lola, and yet, you married Elodie. What a downgrade.”

That was it. I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. My fist flew, connecting with Ashton’s jaw with a satisfying crack. He staggered back, clutching his face in shock.

“She’s not a downgrade,” I spat, advancing on him. “Elodie is worth more than you or Lola will ever be.”

Ashton recovered quickly, rage lighting up his eyes. He lunged at me, and we collided with the lockers behind me, the metal doors rattling from the impact. His fists swung wildly, but I ducked and delivered a blow to his ribs.

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