Page 72 of Fractured Faceoff

I shrugged off my clothes, the fabricpooling on the floor. I pulled on a pair of pajama pants, even though it was too hot for them. The cotton clung to my skin, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a futile attempt at comfort. After everything that happened with Isla earlier, my mind buzzed with thoughts that refused to quiet down.

Just as I settled onto the edge of my bed, ready to sink into the soft bed and pass out, a knock echoed through the room. It was light but persistent.

I swung the door open and found Isla standing there.

“Sorry about that, but I…” she finally managed, her eyes darting back up to meet mine. Her voice caught in her throat, trailing off mid-sentence as her gaze fell to my bare chest. Heat crawled up her cheeks, painting her face a soft pink.

I couldn’t help but smile at how easily I could make her blush. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and smirked. “I think we did well tonight.”

Her eyes snapped back to mine, surprise flashing across her features before she nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

We stood there in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken words and shared understanding. My heart raced—not just from our earlier conversation about Brody or the absurdity of our arrangement—but from this moment hanging between us.

“Good night, sugar,” I murmured, letting the softness in my voice seep through.

“Good night,” she whispered back, a hint of vulnerability coloring her tone.

As I watched her retreat down the hallway, something warm unfurled inside me. The evening had shifted something fundamental between us; this was more than just a game now.

But what it was exactly? That, I couldn't say.

The week rolledby like a well-oiled machine. Mornings blurred into afternoons, and I slipped into the routine of early skates, my blades slicing through the ice with ease. The chill air nipped at my skin, but I welcomed it. The rink felt like home.

Every session pushed me harder, honing my speed and reflexes. I focused on those drills, working on my shots and footwork, while my mind wandered back to Isla. The way her cheeks flushed when I teased her had become a highlight of my day. We shared glances in the hallway that lingered just a second too long, like we were both holding our breath for something unspoken.

The preseason game loomed ahead, set for Friday. Excitement thrummed beneath my skin as I practiced plays with the team, camaraderie crackling between us like static electricity. Every pass connected us more tightly, each shout of encouragement from teammates fueling the fire within me.

In the locker room after one particularly grueling practice, I leaned against my stall, catching snippets of conversation floating around me. Guys laughed about last night’s game highlights on TV and made plans for after Friday’s match.

“Hey Crowder,” Asher called out, pulling me from my thoughts. “You ready to show ‘em what the Southern Serpent can do?”

I shot him a grin and flexed an arm playfully. “Just watch me steal the show.”

They all laughed as I finished dressing. As we stepped out into the bright daylight, an unexpected thrillshot through me. Game day was always electric, and this time would be no different, even with the Serpents.

I made it a point to take Isla to lunch every day, no matter how packed my schedule got. It had become our ritual. I’d swing by her office, the scent of fresh flowers lingering in my truck like a secret between us. I chose blooms that reminded me of her—bright and resilient, like she was beneath that polished exterior.

Each day brought new laughter, our conversations flowing effortlessly. I had expected it to feel forced, this fake dating thing, but with Isla, it often felt genuine.

One afternoon, as we sat across from each other at our usual café, she laughed at one of my terrible jokes. The way her eyes sparkled sent warmth flooding through me.

“Seriously,” she said between giggles, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

I leaned back in my chair, grinning. “Impossible? Nah, just charmingly rogue.”

Her laughter faded into a soft smile. For a moment, the world outside the café blurred away. I noticed the sunlight catching the strands of her hair and the way her fingers brushed against the table’s edge—delicate and graceful.

As we finished our meals and headed out to my truck later that day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were dancing on a line—one that blurred between reality and make-believe.

Driving home at night became another highlight of my day. We’d blast music or argue over who picked the worst playlist while navigating through Detroit’s dimly lit streets. Those moments felt real too—like pieces of a life we hadn’t fully committed to yet.

I wiped the last remnants of sweat from my brow and tossed my towel into my locker. After practice, I felt alive,ready to tackle anything that came my way. As I pulled on my sweats, Coach Barrett's voice echoed through the locker room, summoning me to his office.

Strolling down the corridor, I couldn’t shake the lightness in my step. I cracked open the door to his office and stepped inside, only to find John Barrett seated behind his desk, his trademark stoic expression firmly in place. He had that rugged charm—with a hint of grizzled wisdom etched across his face. The man had a presence that demanded respect without saying a word.

Beside him lounged Weston Cole, leaning back in the chair like he owned the place. He wore that infamous smirk, one that always reminded me of an asshole you wanted to punch. And I always wanted to punch Weston fucking Cole. The guy could flip a switch from charming to menacing faster than I could blink. His dark hair was slicked back, and he carried an air of cockiness that made it hard not to resent him.

“Crowder,” Barrett said, cutting straight to business. “Take a seat.”

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