Chapter 2 — The Game

Charlie

The sharp slice of skates on ice echoed through the rink, cutting through the hum of the fans and the muffled thuds of bodies against the boards. Normally, this sound grounded me—it was home. But tonight, it was like static, grating and loud, drowning out everything else.

"Adams! Quit dragging your feet!" Coach’s voice cracked like a whip across the ice.

I clenched my jaw, digging my skates harder into the ice as I chased the puck. My stick connected, but the shot was off, ricocheting off the boards with a hollow, mocking thunk. A couple of teammates muttered something under their breath, but I didn’t catch it—or maybe I just didn’t want to.

"Get your head in the game!" Coach barked again.

My hands tightened around my stick, the rough grip biting into my gloves. I wanted to yell back: I’m trying. But the words stayed lodged in my throat, tangled with the heat of my frustration. I pushed harder, going through the motions of the drill, each stride feeling heavier.

"Charlie, what’s your deal tonight?" Nate’s voice came from beside me as we circled back to the bench. His tone was calm, steady. Too steady. It made me want to snap.

"I’m fine," I bit out, not looking at him.

"You don’t look fine," he said, skating ahead without waiting for an answer.

I caught a glimpse of Logan smirking at me from the other side of the rink, his eyes narrowing in that way that always made my blood simmer. "Guess even the golden boy has off nights," he muttered just loud enough for me to hear as I passed.

My shoulders tensed, my grip on the stick tightening until I thought it might snap. I ignored him, focusing on the next drill, but his voice lingered in my head, feeding the frustration that was already clawing at my chest.

By the time practice ended, my legs felt like lead, and the ache in my chest had only grown. I yanked off my helmet, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair as I leaned against the boards. The stands were mostly empty now, the die-hard fans and parents packing up and heading out into the cold.

That’s when I saw her.

Near the top row of the bleachers, head bowed over a sketchbook, was Bailey Rhodes. Her pencil moved quickly, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked completely out of place here, her quiet presence a stark contrast to the noise of the rink.

I frowned, watching her for a moment. Why was she here? Bailey wasn’t the kind of girl who showed up at hockey games, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t spoken more than ten words to me—or anyone on the team—since freshman year.

"Charlie!" Nate’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned to see him waiting near the locker room entrance, already halfway out of his gear. He raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering if I planned to stand there all night.

"Yeah, I’m coming," I called back, grabbing my water bottle. When I glanced back at the stands, Bailey was gone, her sketchbook tucked under her arm as she slipped out of sight.

---

The parking lot was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and made you notice every little sound—the crunch of gravel under your boots, the faint hum of distant traffic. The cold bit through my hoodie, sharp and unforgiving, but I barely felt it.

I lingered near my Jeep, knowing he’d find me soon enough.

"Charlie."

His voice cut through the stillness like a knife. I turned slowly, bracing myself.

My stepfather stood a few feet away, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel. He was still in his suit from work, though his tie was loosened just enough to make him look vaguely human. Except he didn’t look human—not to me. He looked like a brick wall, solid and unyielding, his expression carved from stone.

"What the hell was that tonight?"

I tried to keep my face neutral, but my fists curled at my sides. "It wasn’t my best practice," I said evenly.

"Not your best?" His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. Disappointment dripped from every word, sharper than any yell could’ve been. "Scouts don’t care about excuses, Charlie. They care about results. And tonight, you didn’t give them any."

"I know," I said through gritted teeth. "I’ll do better."

"Will you?" He stepped closer, his voice low and cutting. "You’ve got talent, but talent means nothing if you can’t keep your head in the game. Stop letting your temper screw everything up."

I looked away, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. He didn’t get it. He didn’t get what it was like to have everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up. To feel like no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough.

"I’ll fix it," I said flatly, the words like ash on my tongue.

"You’d better," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned and walked to his car, his footsteps fading into the night.

I stayed where I was, staring at the ground, the cold air burning my skin. My breath fogged in front of me, and I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets, trying to keep the frustration from boiling over.

That’s when I saw it—a small black book lying near the edge of the lot.

I bent down and picked it up, the soft leather cool against my fingers. It didn’t take long to realize what it was. Bailey’s sketchbook.

Curiosity tugged at me, and before I could stop myself, I flipped it open.

The first drawing stopped me cold.

It was me. Or, at least, a version of me. The sharp angles of the face, the determined set of the jaw—it was like she’d drawn the person I was supposed to be. Confident. In control. Larger than life. Everything I didn’t feel right now.

I turned the page, and there was the rink. The lines were so precise, so alive, it was like I could hear the scrape of skates on the ice just by looking at it.

"Hey!"

Her voice startled me, and I looked up to see Bailey standing a few feet away, her face pale and her eyes wide with panic.

"This yours?" I asked, holding up the sketchbook.

She nodded quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. "Yeah. Can I—can I have it back?"

"Sure." I handed it over, but not before I noticed her hands trembling as she took it.

For a moment, neither of us moved. She clutched the sketchbook to her chest like it was a shield, her eyes darting anywhere but at me.

"These are really good," I said finally, my voice softer than I expected. "It’s like you… caught something real. Something beyond just what’s there."

Her eyes flicked up to mine, surprise flashing across her face. "Thanks," she mumbled. Her voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it.

"You should show people," I said, shrugging. "Enter a contest or something. People should see this."

Her grip on the sketchbook tightened, and she shook her head quickly. "It’s not… not something I’m ready for."

I didn’t get that—not really. If you were good at something, why hide it? But the way she looked at me, like she was trying to disappear into herself, made me back off.

"Well, they’re still amazing," I said, shoving my hands into my hoodie pockets.

She nodded, muttering another "thanks" before turning and walking away, her head down and her steps quick.

I watched her go, the image of that sketch burned into my mind.

By the time I climbed into my Jeep, her drawing—strong, confident, more than I felt—was still stuck in my head. And for the first time that night, the weight on my chest felt just a little lighter.