Chapter 3 — Clashing on the Ice

Josiah

The ice had a way of silencing everything. The tension in my chest, the weight of the stares back in the locker room, even the voice in my head whispering, *You don’t belong here.* Out here, it was just the cold kiss of the rink, the sound of my skates slicing smooth lines across the ice, and the steady thrum of my heartbeat in my ears.

But today, even the ice couldn’t drown out the noise.

Coach’s whistle blared, and the team erupted into motion, splitting into two groups for the scrimmage. My group took the far bench, while the others lined up at center ice. Trevor nudged me as we slid onto the bench, knocking his helmet against mine.

“Don’t sweat it, Ellis. Just keep your stick on the ice, your head up, and don’t trip over your own skates,” he said with an easy grin.

I tried to grin back, but it felt shaky at best. “Right. No pressure or anything.”

“Pressure’s good. Means it matters,” Trevor said, leaning back against the boards. His eyes flicked to the players skating warm-up laps. “Just don’t let Fox get in your head. He’s got sharp elbows and a sharper mouth.”

I glanced out at the ice. Fox Ridley was circling like he owned it, his navy and gold jersey hanging loose over his pads. His movements were all sharp edges and precision, every stride cutting into the ice like it owed him something. He hadn’t looked my way since the locker room, but somehow, I could still feel the weight of him. The other players gave him space, like they knew better than to get in his path.

The puck dropped, and the scrimmage began. I tried to focus on the game—the way the players moved, the sound of sticks clashing, the puck rattling off the boards. But my attention kept drifting to Fox.

He played like the ice was his stage, his every move commanding attention. Even standing still, he had a presence that made the rink feel smaller. And the worst part? He made it look effortless.

Coach’s voice cut through the air. “Ellis! You’re up!”

My heart lurched. I shot up, hopping the boards and hitting the ice as the shift changed. Trevor skated past me, tapping my stick with his as he headed off.

“Go get ’em, rookie,” he called lightly, like it was no big deal.

The puck dropped again, and I threw myself into the play, chasing the black disk down the ice. My skates dug in, propelling me forward as I weaved around an opponent. The puck clung to my stick like it belonged there, and for a fleeting moment, I felt like I could fly.

And then Fox happened.

He came out of nowhere, cutting across the ice and slamming his shoulder into mine. The impact sent me stumbling, the world tilting as I fought to stay upright. The puck slipped away, spinning toward the boards as Fox skated off with it, his smirk flickering across his face like a dare.

I clenched my jaw, heat flaring in my chest. My strides quickened as I chased him down, adrenaline burning through the cold. He was fast, his edges sharp as he rounded the goal, but I was right on his heels.

“You think you can keep up, Ellis?” he called over his shoulder, his voice low and cutting.

“Guess we’ll find out,” I shot back, though my voice wavered slightly.

I lunged, my stick darting out to poke the puck free. It ricocheted off his blade, spinning loose between us. For a split second, our eyes locked. His were sharp and calculating, but something else flickered there—something like amusement.

It threw me off. The way he looked at me felt too familiar, like a half-forgotten dream clawing its way to the surface.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I dived for the puck, my skates carving deep grooves into the ice. My stick connected, sending the puck flying to one of my teammates.

“Nice hands, Ellis!” Trevor shouted from the bench.

The play continued, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of Fox’s presence right behind me, like a shadow I couldn’t outrun. Every time I touched the puck, he was there, cutting off my angles, forcing me to think faster, move sharper.

By the time the whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift, my lungs were on fire, and my legs felt like lead. I skated to the bench, collapsing onto the seat beside Trevor.

“Not bad, rookie,” he said, handing me a water bottle. “Skating against Fox is like trying to outrun a freight train.”

“Understatement,” I muttered, taking a long swig of water. My gaze drifted to Fox, who was leaning against the boards, his helmet off and his dark hair sticking to his forehead. He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning like it had never left.

“What’s his deal, anyway?” I asked, more to myself than anyone else.

Trevor shrugged, his expression softening into something almost sympathetic. “Fox? He’s intense. Always has been. Probably sees you as a threat.”

“A threat?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “To what? His ego?”

Trevor chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe something else. The guy’s not exactly an open book.”

I laughed despite myself, the sound coming out rough and breathless.

The second half of the scrimmage began, and I watched from the bench as Fox dominated the ice. He was relentless, every move calculated to send a message: *This is my rink. My team. My territory.*

I hated how good he was. Hated how he made me feel—small, insignificant, like no matter how hard I tried, I’d never measure up. And beneath the frustration, there was something else. Something raw and uninvited, something that made my chest ache.

When the game finally ended, I skated off the ice, my limbs aching and my mind buzzing. The locker room was loud with chatter and laughter, but I stayed quiet, focusing on peeling off my gear.

“Ellis!” Coach’s voice cut through the noise.

I looked up, finding him standing in the doorway, clipboard in hand.

“Good hustle out there,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Keep it up, and we’ll see about your spot on the roster.”

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat. “Thanks, Coach.”

As I stuffed my gear back into my bag, I felt a presence beside me. I glanced up to find Fox standing there, his helmet dangling from one hand, his gaze unreadable.

“Not bad, rookie,” he said, his voice low. “But don’t get too comfortable. You’ve got a lot to prove.”

I met his eyes, forcing myself to look steady under his scrutiny. “Yeah? Guess we’ll see.”

His smirk sharpened before he turned and walked away.

As I left The Ice Den, the cold night air hit me like a wave, wrapping around me in silence. My breath fogged the air as I looked back at the rink, its neon sign flickering faintly against the dark.

The knot in my chest tightened, but beneath it, something else stirred. Determination.

This wasn’t just about hockey. This was about proving I belonged.

And I wasn’t about to back down.