Page 5 of Price of Victory
The locker roombuzzed with the kind of energy that only came from reunions and fresh starts. Guys were talking over each other, catching up on summer stories, complaining about how out of shape they’d gotten despite the training regimens Coach had sent us home with. I’d missed this more than I’d realized. Not just the hockey, but this feeling of belonging somewhere, of being part of something bigger than myself.
“Morrison, you get uglier every summer,” Patrick called out from across the room, pulling on his practice jersey with an exaggerated grimace.
“Still prettier than your face,” I shot back, earning a round of laughter from the guys nearby.
Elio was helping one of the freshmen figure out how to adjust his shoulder pads properly, while Easton held court near his locker, explaining some complex play strategy to anyone who’d listen. The four new guys looked like they were trying not to throw up from nerves. Baby-faced didn’t even begin to cover it. They looked like they should be asking for hall passes, not suiting up for college hockey.
I remembered that feeling, though. That mixture of terror and excitement, knowing you were finally where you’d dreamed of being but having no idea if you were good enough to stay.
“Heads up, freshmen,” Lennox called out, taping his stick with military precision. “First practice is always a trial by fire. Coach is going to push you until you either prove you belong here or cry for your mommy.”
“Speak for yourself,” said one of the new guys. Jake, I think his name was. “I didn’t cry until the second practice.”
That got a laugh, and some of the tension in the room eased. Good. Team chemistry started in moments like this, when guys realized they could joke around and still respect each other on the ice.
“Where’s the transfer student?” Easton asked, checking his watch with the precision of someone who’d been team captain long enough to take punctuality seriously. “Practice starts in ten minutes.”
“Already making a great impression,” Lennox muttered, working his feet into his skates. “Nothing says ‘team player’ like being the last guy to show up on the first day.”
“Maybe he got lost,” Patrick suggested, ever the optimist. “Transfer students don’t know the building layout yet. This place is a maze if you’re not used to it.”
I was lacing up my own skates, testing the tightness around my ankles. “Or maybe he thinks he’s too good for punctuality. Some guys come in thinking they’re doing us a favor just by showing up.”
“Harsh, Morrison,” Elio said, but he was grinning. “Give the guy a chance to prove he’s an asshole before you write him off.”
“Fair enough,” I said, standing to test my balance. The familiar weight of the gear, the way the skates made me feel slightly unsteady until I got on the ice, it all felt like coming home.
I was still laughing at something Lennox had said about the freshman’s helmet being bigger than his head when the locker room door opened.
And my blood turned to ice.
Aiden Whitmore walked in like he expected applause, gear bag slung over his shoulder with casual confidence, not a single hair out of place despite the fact that he was late. He moved with that same predatory grace I remembered from years of watching him work a room at business functions, scanning his surroundings like he was cataloging weaknesses and opportunities.
He looked exactly the same as he had three or four years ago, and that somehow made it worse. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a jawline narrow enough to make fashion photographers weep, dark hair styled to perfection, even though he was about to sweat through a two-hour practice. Every line of his face was carved with the kind of mathematical precision that made you think someone had designed him in a lab specifically to fuck with my peace of mind.
The sight of him hit me like a slap across the face, followed immediately by a punch to the nuts. This was supposed to be my year. My last shot at making something happen, at proving I belonged in the NHL, at having one perfect season before real life kicked in and I had to figure out what came next. And the universe had just found one last way to completely fuck with me.
The conversation in the room didn’t exactly stop, but it shifted, the way it always did when someone new entered a space. Guys were sizing him up, trying to figure out if he was going to be competition or dead weight. None of them had any idea they were looking at the son of a man who’d tried to destroy my family.
“Sorry I’m late,” Aiden said, and his voice was exactly the same, too. Smooth, confident, with just enough warmth to seemgenuine but not quite enough to be trustworthy. His eyes swept the room with calculated casualness and landed on me, and I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Traffic was worse than I expected.”
Bullshit. Aiden Whitmore had never been late for anything in his life unless it was a strategic choice. He was the kind of person who showed up exactly when he wanted to show up, not a minute before or after.
He dropped his bag next to an empty locker. Of course it was the one three spots down from mine. He started unpacking like nothing was wrong, like his presence here wasn’t about to ruin everything I’d been working toward for the past three years.
“Aiden,” he said, introducing himself to Patrick and one of the freshmen with easy charm. “Looking forward to playing with you all this season.”
Patrick, being Patrick, immediately started making small talk about Michigan’s program and how the transfer process had worked. Aiden answered with just the right amount of detail, humble but not self-deprecating, confident but not arrogant. He was good at this. Good at making people like him, at sliding into a new group like he’d always belonged there.
When his gaze found mine again, there was something calculating in those green eyes, like he was working through a chess problem and I was a piece he needed to figure out how to move.
“Rhett Morrison,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like he’d been practicing it. “It’s been a while.”
The words were neutral enough, but there was history in them, weight that no one else in the room could hear. My teammates were listening, though, picking up on the tension, even if they didn’t understand it.
“Not long enough,” I muttered under my breath, but Aiden heard it. His smile widened, showing those perfect white teeth that probably cost more than most people’s cars.
“Sorry, do you two know each other?” Lennox asked quietly, moving closer to me with the protective instincts of someone who’d been my roommate long enough to read my moods.
