Chapter 2 ELLIOT

“The upperclassmen are back in school now. I think you’ll finally get a roommate assigned.”

We were headed back to the athlete’s dorms after class, it’s been two days since the frat party, I still felt like shit, and I had a mandatory team meeting to attend before I could go back to my room.

“Do you still have practice?” Delia asked when I remained quiet.

“Yeah.” I fiddled with the strap of my bag. “I’m headed to the rink now, so you’ll have to go on without me.”

“Sure.” She nodded, “Let’s get dinner after?”

“I’ll find you.”

She gave me a mock salute, and then she was gone, her brown hair bouncing in her ponytail. I took a deep sigh and turned in the opposite direction.

At the entrance to the rink, I bumped into a tall, large body.

“Oh shit, sorry.” I mumbled, but then I glanced up and all the blood left my body.

It was him.

The senior from the party. He seemed harsher and more severe in the daytime, older somehow than he was at the party, his eyes were ice blue, cold and unfamiliar.

They raked over me from head to toe, and I blushed, realising I was wearing his hoodie.

I opened my mouth to say hi, but he was shoving past me without another word, his large duffel bag pushing me aside.

I was left standing there, reeling, gaping after him in shock.

“Yo! Small fry!” a voice called and suddenly there was a large arm over my shoulder. “You’re the new goalie right?”

I forced my gaze away and glanced at the large man smiling down at me. “Yeah.” I said.

“Cool, welcome to the team.” He herded me forward, and I could do nothing but follow. “If we’re late, Coach Mikealson makes us run ten laps.”

That didn’t sound so bad. I’ve always liked running. The man led me straight to the locker room, where there were about ten men milling about in various states of undress.

“Men, and Freshmen!” the man behind me called. “Allow me to introduce you to our newest goalie...what’s your name kid?”

“I’m Elliot, Cross.”

A couple of them turned to look, some gave me nods of acknowledgement. The senior from last night was nowhere to be found.

“So, Elliot, there’s about twenty of us on this team, you’ll learn their names eventually, but I’m Houston, and I play starting forward.” He smirked, “We’re the life and soul of this team.”

“Oh so that’s why we haven’t had any wins this seasons.” Someone snorted in the back.

“That foul-mouthed peasant over there is our starting goalie, you have the pleasure of sharing the net with him.”

The other man grinned and clapped my shoulder. “Tobias. Welcome to hell, kid.”

After the introductions had been made, they all left me alone to change into my gear. I was putting on the last of my padding when the locker room door opened and the senior walked in.

His gaze ran over the room, landing on me briefly before looking away. “Coach Mikealson wants us on the ice for thirty minutes. So let’s move out, boys.”

There was a grumble of assent, and then he left again. Houston leaned in to whisper to me, “That asshole was Weston Pierce. He’s the captain, apparently.”

I met his gaze. “I’m guessing you’re not a fan?”

Houston scoffs, “No one likes him. He’s a Perfectionist freak who thinks he’s better than all of us because his Dad is a hockey legend. Y’know, he got our last captain suspended for drug use.”

“Oh.” I said, but the only thing I could think about was how he’d looked at me in that bathroom, the feeling of his breath on my skin when he’d laughed.

But then he’d ignored me earlier, so maybe Houston was right about him.

We took to the ice, minutes later. Tobias skated to the net, so I assumed I’d sit through practice.

But then Weston turned his gaze on me.

“You!” he barked, “On the ice!”

I got to my feet, my heart pounding. Tobias gave me a look of sympathy as he skated past and I felt my heart sink.

The whistle went off and practice began.

I was careless and distracted, far too aware of Weston to be able to concentrate. By the time the whistle went off again, I was irritated at myself.

I pulled off my head gear and looked out to the ice, only to find Weston skating towards me with something dark in his eyes.

He stopped close enough that we would’ve been nose to nose if we were the same height. I craned to meet his gaze and tried not to remember the last time he’d towered over me like this.

“What’s your name?!” he barked.

You know my name, asshole!

“Elliot Cross.” I hissed.

“Where the fuck are you from, Cross?”

“I’m from Arizona.”

“Why the fuck are you on my team?” he growled, stalking even closer.

I was getting really irritated now. “I’m on a scholarship.” I spat, glaring back.

“Oh so they just give any body a sport scholarship now uh? Or is this how they play hockey in Albuquerque? The absolute dogshit you just performed on my ice?”

“I’m from Arizona.” I forced out through gritted teeth.

“You’re from wherever the fuck I say you’re from. This team is mine, I’m responsible for taking them to the championship, so if you’re planning to come here and half ass shit, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to reconsider this scholarship.

“Maybe join the junior leagues,” he ran his gaze over me, “You look enough like one of them.”

“Funny,” I spat, low enough so only he could hear. “That didn’t stop you from shoving your dick down my throat the other night.”

His eyes flashed and he shoved me to the ice, hard. “What the fuck did you just say to me?!”

My anger, more familiar to me than my own name, came over me with a force, and I was lunging at him, tackling him to the ground.

Suddenly, there were hands around us, shouts from our teammates as they tried to separate us. Houston put my arms in lock, lifting me effortlessly off even as I kicked and thrashed.

Weston pushed himself to his feet, glaring at me with murder in his eyes, he wiped blood from a split lip. Sick satisfaction bloomed in me.

“What in the devil's ballsack is going on?” a voice boomed, and I turned to find a tall, athletic woman standing there.

She was dark skinned and had curly hair she put in a severe bun.

“I leave you alone for thirty minutes and you’re about to massacre each other.”

Weston spat blood out on the ice. “Your new goalie is a fucking psycho.” He hissed.

“I don’t want to hear it! You’re both dismissed. Two weeks off the ice for you both with mandatory puck practice.”

I stormed off the ice, and left the rink without even taking a shower. By the time I got back to my room, I was bruised and aching and still buzzing with anger.

I pushed the room door open and froze, because in the corner of the room, wrapped in a towel and surrounded by various open boxes, was Weston Pierce.

He looked up. Our eyes met.

For fuck’s sake.