Page 5 of On the Breakaway

When I turn back, I find Grayson watching me, one eyebrow quirked as if I’m a puzzle he’s still trying to figure out. I scan his face, trying to find an ounce of hurt or disappointment, finding only his controlled calm instead.

“You hate me that much, huh?” He asks.

It’s a loaded question. Acknowledging it means admitting I only kissed Liam to avoid kissing him. Which is true, but not something I plan to say out loud. Especially because using the words kissing and Grayson in the same sentence makes me want to kill off whatever brain cells seem to be curious about it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, standing up now that the crowd has started to disperse. I turn toward Liam. “Thanks for the kiss.”

He doesn’t hear me, already back in a very close conversation with the brunette at his other side. I silently curse him for not being the buffer he always is between Grayson and me.

Finally, I turn back toward Grayson, giving him a quick wave. “Bye, Grayson.”

“Bye, Chaos.” Grayson waves right back.

I feel his eyes on me long after I’ve walked away.

2

Grayson

The first thing I hear when I step out of Coach’s office is the hum of the arena waking up.

It’s still too early for most of the guys, judging by the empty hallway and the quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the air carries that familiar mix of sweat and fresh ice.

Practice isn’t until ten, but for me, Monday mornings start early. The coaching staff meets at seven, and when Coach named me captain three years ago, he gave me a standing invite. I’ve never missed one.

Today, we ran through lines for the better part of an hour. He doesn’t need to ask my opinion, but he always does because I know this team on the ice and off of it.

I can tell you who hangs out together and who secretly hates each other. Hell, I could probably tell you which guys have slept with the same woman before they’ve figured it out themselves.

We discussed the rookies and their pairings to see who’s ready for more time and who needs a little less. It’s not the glamorous part of being captain. No one’s interviewing me about depth charts or defensive rotations, even if that’s what actually wins games. It’s the difference between a team that looks good on paper and one that works when the puck drops.

We won the Cup my first year on this team, four years ago, and I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since. This time, as captain, I want to be the one to lead us there, so mornings like this are a part of the deal.

I roll my shoulders as I head down the hall to the locker room, stiffness already creeping in from sitting too long.

Getting here three hours before practice used to annoy me. Now, I like it. There’s a rhythm to mornings like this. I show up early and get my head right, making sure everyone else has what they need before they even realize they need it.

That’s how Nathan’s tape, the only kind he’ll use, shows up on the bench by his stuff. It’s how Wyatt’s superstitious granola bars, the ones he ate before a big win and now refuses to play without, never stop replenishing in his locker.

No one notices, but I do it anyway. Hell, even if I weren’t captain, I probably still would.

According to Coach, I’m easy to like, which is why I was named captain when most defenders are never looked twice at for the role.

I almost laugh under my breath at the thought.

Easy to like.

For most people, maybe.

Not for Avery Holt.

The thought comes uninvited, but once it’s here, it sticks.

Between the two of us, there’s only one unlikable person. She’s loud, hostile, and blunt in a way that borders on reckless. She moves through the world on impulse and gets away with it. Maybe it’s because she owns every room she steps into by flashing her smile or shimmying her hips, distracting everyone in a way that even I’m not entirely immune to.

And for whatever reason, she’s decided she doesn’t like me. She’s hell-bent on making her hatred very clear in every single interaction.

Every. Single. One.