Page 21 of Fault Line

He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes by. “You sure are gettin’ a lot of love from DU tonight, Becksy.”

I offer him a wry smile. “Yeah, I can feel the love every time I get cross-checked into the boards.”

We share a quick laugh while I refocus on the puck. The other team carries on taunting me, the handsy guy from earlier shouting a slew of insults that I don’t bother to register. I glare past him and skate faster.

The puck sails toward me, and I lunge for it. That’s when I feel the full impact of a hit—hard enough to make me stumble. Turning, I catch the offender red-handed. He’s a tall, burly guy with an ugly sneer on his face.

“Watch yourself,pretty boy,” he says, mocking my roommate.

Blood rushes to my head at the flagrant insult. It’s one thing for my teammates and friends to sling shit, but this guy’s barking up the wrong tree with me. I skate closer, giving him a harsh shove in retaliation.

“What’s your problem, man?”

He glares daggers back at me. There’s misplaced anger and frustration in his eyes, and I know he won’t give up easily. He attempts to body-check me again, but I deflect, ultimately throwing the first punch. The sound of helmets clashing echoes throughout the arena, and the crowd goes wild.

The referees try to break us up, but we keep going at it. Heat and sweat pour down my face as we trade blows. Finally, our respective teammates manage to separate us, and we’re both sent to the penalty box.

The rush of adrenaline slowly wears off as I sit there, watching the game continue on without my involvement. A mix of emotions swirls inside me—anger, satisfaction, and a hint of regret—as I reflect on the pointless fight and wait for my chance to rejoin my team.

After the penalty’s served, I return to the ice, more focused this time. I skate harder, easily checking my opponents and chasing down every puck that comes my way.

The game becomes a blur of sound and motion, a frenzy of sticks and skates and bodies colliding. The score stays close, and tensions run high. Still, these fucking DU guys seem determined to get under my skin, continuing to throw jabs and insults every time they approach me.

I manage to ignore the taunts, concentrating on my own performance and the game’s rhythm. We score a goal, igniting a surge of energy amongst my teammates, but it’s quickly dampened by a tying goal from DU. The crowd’s intensity builds as the clock ticks down, and with only a few minutes left, the pressure mounts.

As the game reaches its final moments, I drive the puck near center ice. I skate toward the goal, weaving around defenders, strategizing the perfect play. With mere seconds left on the clock, I spot a brief opening and take the shot, harnessing every last ounce of skill and power in my possession.

To no one’s surprise, the puck sails past their goalie and into the net, scoring the game-winning goal. The crowd erupts in cheers, and my teammates mob me on the ice.

I’m sure my father’s thoroughly impressed, and I’m happy to have made an impact despite my earlier showboating.

But as I exit the rink and strip off my helmet in the locker room, the rush of our win fading into the background, my thoughts inevitably wander back to my argument with Kaia. I’ve been dwelling on it all fucking week, no matter how hard I try not to.

I shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me on Tuesday, and I definitely shouldn’t have called her a fucking brat, at least not to her face. Now, she’s been giving me the cold shoulder for days, even more so after we received the official email from Dr. Khatri.

As predicted, we’ll be sharing her as our advisor.

I tried approaching Kaia afterward to make things right, but she wouldn’t even look at me. And honestly, being ignored like this fucking sucks. I’m not used to it, from her or from anyone. I miss teasing her, making her laugh despite herself, riling her up like usual.

I promised I wouldn’t push her too far, but I guess I already fucked that up.

It’s weird how much I give a shit, actually. And what’s even weirder is that I find myself wishing she were here tonight. I doubt she’s ever been to a game before, but I can still picture it perfectly—her sitting in the stands, watching me play, waiting for me outside of the arena so I can gloat about my win.

I know we left things on a shitty note, but a part of me wants to show her how fucking hard I work outside of class. That I’m not just the rich, spoiled asshole she thinks I am.

I shake my head, trying to push thoughts of her out of my mind, but it’s pointless. I acknowledge that I shouldn’t be fixating on this shit, not after the vile words she spewed right back at me.

We both went too far. I’ll be the first to admit it.

But no matter how hard I try to block her out, it seems like thoughts of her—the disappointed look on her face, the tremble of her lower lip, that tiny furrow in her brow—always find a way to slip right on through the cracks.

* * *

After debriefingwith my team and taking a quick shower, I meet my father at some swanky restaurant he’s chosen. When I walk in, he stands up, greeting me with a nod and a firm handshake.

Well, that’s real fucking nice, Dad. I guess we’re playing the role of business associates tonight.

He takes a long sip of his scotch before addressing me. “So, Holden, how’s school been treating you this term? Still top of your class?”

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