Page 6 of Price of Victory
I could feel the rest of the team’s attention shifting toward us, curious about the undercurrent they were sensing but couldn’t place. The last thing I needed was to air family business in front of everyone on the first day of practice.
“A long time ago,” I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “Our families, er, travel in similar circles.”
It was a diplomatic way of saying our fathers had been trying to destroy each other for the better part of two decades, but Lennox knew me well enough to read between the lines.
“Not good?” His voice was barely audible, meant only for me.
I shook my head, watching as Aiden continued charming his way through introductions like some kind of social media influencer. There couldn’t have been a worse way to start the season. I’d been looking forward to this for months. Senior year, the culmination of everything I’d been working toward since I was five years old and my dad first put me on skates.
Now, it felt like the whole thing was already tainted.
By the time we were all geared up and heading toward the ice, my jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. The familiar ritual of getting into full equipment usually calmed me down, got me focused on the game instead of whatever else was cluttering up my head. But today, every strap I tightened and every piece of padding I adjusted just reminded me that I was about to spend the next several months sharing ice time with someone I’d been perfectly happy never seeing again.
The rink was exactly as I’d left it in May. Pristine ice, bright lights, the smell of cold air and possibility. Coach Webber waswaiting for us at center ice, clipboard in hand and that familiar intensity radiating from every pore. He was a good coach, tough but fair, and he’d been the one to convince me that Steel Saints was the right choice when I was being recruited.
“Gentlemen,” he said once we’d all gathered around him in a loose circle. “Welcome back. I hope you all had a productive summer because we’re picking up right where we left off last season.”
He paused to look each of us in the eye, the way he always did when he was making a point. “For those of you who were here last year, you know what we accomplished. Conference champions, twenty-three wins, only four losses. That’s not luck, that’s hard work and dedication.”
A few of the guys nodded, remembering. It had been a good season, and it made us believe anything was possible if we wanted it badly enough.
Coach’s attention shifted to the freshmen, who were trying to look confident and mostly failing. “Our new players, I expect you to work twice as hard as everyone else until you prove you belong here. This team had the best record in our conference last year, and we’re not lowering our standards for anyone.”
Then his gaze landed on Aiden, and I felt my stomach clench. “Special mention to our transfer student, Aiden Whitmore, joining us from the University of Michigan. He’s returning home to Chicago and brings some serious talent with him.”
Returning home. The words made my teeth grind against each other so hard I was surprised they didn’t crack. Of course he was spinning it like some heartwarming homecoming story instead of whatever corporate bullshit had really brought him here. Probably some family business crisis that required the ruthless boy to come back and play his part.
“Let’s see what you’ve all got,” Coach continued, oblivious to the way my hands were clenching into fists inside my gloves.“We’ll start with basic drills, work on conditioning, then run some plays. I want to see how our chemistry looks with the new additions.”
As we spread out for warm-up laps, my mind was flooded with memories I’d spent three years trying to forget. They came in flashes, unwanted and vivid, like someone was flipping through a photo album in my head.
Aiden at some charity gala when we were nineteen, sliding up next to me at the bar while I was trying to avoid making small talk with my parents’ friends. He’d been wearing a perfectly tailored tux that probably cost more than my car, and when he’d asked if I wanted to get some air, there had been something in his voice that made it clear he wasn’t talking about fresh air.
Aiden at a company Christmas party the winter after that, finding excuses to touch my arm while he talked, standing just a little too close when we were trapped in conversations with boring adults. Every interaction had felt like a test, like he was pushing to see how I’d react.
Aiden at a charity function two years ago, the last time I’d seen him before today. He’d cornered me in a hallway between the dining room and the kitchen, close enough that I could smell his cologne and see the way his eyes tracked my mouth when he talked. He’d said something about always wondering what I was like when I wasn’t playing the perfect son, and the implication had been crystal clear.
He’d been testing me, pushing to see if I’d crack, if I’d admit to what we both knew but neither of us had ever said out loud. It had felt like a game to him, seeing how far he could push before I either kissed him or punched him. Maybe both.
I’d done neither, but it hadn’t been easy. Instead, I’d made some excuse about needing to get back to the party and left him standing there with that knowing smile on his face.
Now, watching him glide effortlessly around the ice like he’d been born on skates, all that old frustration came rushing back. He moved with the natural grace that made hockey look easy, the fluid motion that coaches dreamed about and spent years trying to teach players who would never quite get it. Every turn was precise, every stride efficient and powerful.
He was fast, too. Not just quick, but genuinely fast in a way that meant he could probably beat most of our team in a straight sprint. His stick handling was smooth and confident, and when he took a shot during the basic drills, the puck flew off his blade with the kind of snap that came from perfect technique and years of practice.
I hated that he was good. I hated that he made it look effortless. I hated the way I could feel his eyes on me every time I had the puck, like he was studying me, figuring out my weaknesses and cataloging them for future use.
But mostly, I hated the way my body reacted to watching him play. The way my pulse quickened when he moved, the way I found myself tracking his position on the ice, even when the drill had nothing to do with him. It was like some part of my brain that I couldn’t control had decided he was important, worth paying attention to, and no amount of rational thought was going to change that.
During a water break, I was leaning against the boards and trying to get my head on straight when he skated over. Of course he did. Aiden Whitmore had never met a situation he couldn’t make more complicated.
“You’re looking good out there, Morrison,” he said, close enough that I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, could catch the familiar scent of whatever expensive soap he used. “Still playing like you’ve got something to prove.”
The observation was accurate enough to sting. I did have something to prove, and we both knew it. Senior year wasmake-or-break time for anyone with NHL dreams, and I’d been carrying that pressure around like a weight on my shoulders for months.
“Maybe because I do,” I said, not bothering to deny it.
“Or maybe because you’re afraid someone might actually be better than you.”
