Chapter 4 Ice and Consequences

Ethan's POV

My head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Repeatedly.

I groaned, rolling over to check my phone. 9:47 AM.

"Fuck."

Practice started at 9:30.

I launched myself out of bed, immediately regretting the sudden movement as my stomach lurched. No time for a shower. I grabbed yesterday's practice gear from my bag, threw on sweats, and was in my car within three minutes.

The drive to the rink was a blur of running yellow lights and praying campus security wasn't patrolling. I burst through the doors at 10:03, my gear bag slamming against the wall as I rushed toward the locker room.

Empty.

They were already on the ice.

"Shit, shit, shit."

I threw on my gear in record time, fingers fumbling with laces and straps. Through the wall, I could hear the familiar sounds of practice - pucks hitting boards, skates cutting ice, Coach Morrison's whistle.

I hit the ice at 12:11.

Twenty pairs of eyes turned to me.

"Nice of you to join us, Cross," Coach called out, voice carrying across the rink.

I skated over to where my linemates were running drills. Dylan looked like death warmed over - at least I wasn't the only one suffering from last night.

"Why didn't you assholes wake me?" I hissed as I joined the drill line.

Marcus snorted. "You literally threatened to end our bloodlines if we ever woke you up again."

"That was different."

"How?"

"That was during optional morning skate. This is actual practice."

"You didn't specify," James added, grinning. "Your exact words were 'wake me up again and I'll make you eat your own teeth.'"

Coach's whistle cut through our conversation. "Cross! Since you're so eager to chat, how about you lead suicide drills?"

The entire team groaned.

"Thanks a lot, princess," Dylan muttered.

Suicide drills. Coach's favorite punishment. Sprint to the blue line and back. Sprint to the red line and back. Sprint to the far blue line and back. Sprint to the goal line and back. Repeat until you either vomited or passed out.

"Let's go, ladies! Cross sets the pace!"

I pushed off hard, legs already protesting. The hangover made everything worse - the bright lights, the cold air, my stomach threatening rebellion with every turn.

By the third set, half the team was cursing my name.

By the fifth, I was seriously considering just dying on the ice.

"Alright, bring it in!" Coach finally called.

We collapsed into a huddle, everyone sucking wind.

"Now that Cross has gifted us that lovely warm-up," Coach said, glaring at me, "let's run some actual plays. Power play unit, you're up."

Practice continued for another hour. Breakout drills. Defensive zone coverage. Power play formations. My head pounded with every whistle, every shout, every puck that rang off the posts.

We ran through our standard 1-3-1 power play setup. I was on the left half-wall, my usual spot. The play was simple - Dylan at the point feeds it down to me, I either take the shot or dish it to Marcus in the slot. We'd run it a thousand times.

But my timing was off. Passes were a half-second late. Shots went wide.

"Cross! What the hell was that?" Coach yelled after I fumbled another pass.

"Sorry, Coach."

"Don't apologize, just fix it!"

James skated over during a water break. "Rough night?"

"Something like that."

"Was it about Champagne Girl?"

I turned to look at him. "What?"

"The video from last night. You two going at it at Derek’s party." He grinned. "Lovers' quarrel?"

"We're not lovers."

"Could've fooled me."

"Drop it."

The thing was, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not in the way the guys were implying, or maybe exactly in that way. I didn’t know yet.

She was stunning. That was just a fact. Long black hair, brown eyes that caught the light when she was angry, which seemed to be every time she looked at me. 

Marcus joined us, because of course he did. "She really told you to go fuck yourself, huh?"

"I said drop it."

"Sensitive." Marcus's grin widened. "Don't worry, happens to everyone. Sometimes girls just aren't interested."

"Oh, She's interested alright."

They both laughed.

"Right," Dylan said, skating over. "That's why she threw champagne at you."

"And publicly rejected you." James added.

"She seems super into you," Marcus agreed.

"You know what? Focus on not falling on your ass during crossovers," I snapped at Marcus. "Then we can discuss my love life."

Coach's whistle saved me from more harassment. "Alright, that's enough! Hit the showers. Cross, my office. Now."

The guys made "ooooh" sounds like we were in middle school.

"Someone's in trouble," Dylan sang.

I flipped them off and followed Coach off the ice.

His office smelled like old coffee. Photos lined the walls - championship teams, NHL players he'd coached, his family. I slumped into the chair across from his desk.

"I heard you’re still getting into fights."

"I—"

"Don't." He held up a hand. "Your mother called me."

Great. Of course she did.

"Since when does my mother call you?"

"Since her son became a liability to his own future." He leaned back in his chair. "Ethan, what the hell is going on with you?"

"Nothing."

"Don’t bullshit me, Cross."

"I'm fine."

"You're spiraling." He pulled out his phone, scrolling. "Bar fight two weeks ago. That incident at the charity gala. Now this viral video situation."

"The champagne thing wasn't my fault…"

"I don't care whose fault it was. I care about perception. You know what the NHL scouts see when they look at you?"

I stayed silent.

"They see talent wrapped in a PR nightmare. They see a kid who can't control his temper. They see a liability."

"I'm working on it."

"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're getting worse."

"I'm going to therapy," I said through gritted teeth. "What else do you want?"

"I want you to give a shit about your future." He leaned forward. "Do you know they're considering passing on you for the draft?"

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"For Connor Matthews from BC. Same position, similar stats, zero baggage. They're seriously considering taking him instead."

"My stats are better…"

"Your stats don't mean shit if you're suspended for fighting." He rubbed his temples. "Look, I didn't want to do this, but you're not giving me much choice."

"Do what?"

“The videos of you and the girl that went viral gave me an idea.” He pulled out a folder. "Within a few days, people dropped the idea of you being a violent ass and are focused on the two of you as a couple."

I stared at him. "What’s your point?"

"There’s a campus reality show filming next week. Love on Ice." Coach folded his arms. “You participate, and people see a different version of you that doesn’t threaten your career. A version of you that isn’t angry all the time.”

"I'm not doing a reality show."

"Yes, you are."

"Coach…"

"Listen to me very carefully." His voice dropped. "You're going to do this show. You're going to smile for the cameras. You're going to be charming and likeable and everything those NHL scouts want to see. You're going to rehabilitate your image."

"This is insane."

"The show starts filming next week. You'll participate, you'll behave, and you'll show everyone that you're more than just some violent rich kid with anger issues."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you're benched until your therapist clears you as 'emotionally stable.' Which, given your current progress, could be months."

I stared at him. "You can't bench me. We have playoffs coming up."

"Watch me."

"This is blackmail."

"This is me trying to save your career." He stood up. "The show or the bench. Your choice."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to go to hell. But I knew that look. He wasn't bluffing.

"Fine."

"Good. They'll send you the details." He moved toward the door. "And Ethan? Try not to assault anyone else before then."

An hour later I was sitting in our usual diner booth off campus while the guys demolished pancakes and fries like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

"You look like someone killed your dog," Marcus said as I slumped into the booth.

"Worse."

"Suspension?" Dylan asked.

"Worse."

"They're making you transfer?" James looked genuinely concerned.

"He's making me do that stupid campus reality show. 'Love on Ice.'"

They all froze. Then burst out laughing.

"Holy shit," Marcus wheezed. "You? On a dating show?"

"With cameras following you around?" Dylan added. "Recording everything?"

"You can't even go five minutes without saying something that would get you cancelled," James pointed out.

"Thanks for the support, assholes."

"Wait, wait." Marcus held up a hand. "How are you doing a dating show? Don't you need, like, a girlfriend for that?"

I shrugged. “That’s the easy part. I can get any girl on this campus.”

They all exchanged looks.

"What?"

"Well..." Marcus started.

"Almost any girl," Dylan corrected.

"Champagne Girl seems pretty immune to your charms," James added.

"Her name is Mia."

"Ooh, first name basis," Marcus teased.

"And she’s not immune. She's just... playing hard to get."

They laughed even harder.

"Right," Dylan said. "That's why she looked ready to murder you last night."

"She's into me."

Or maybe I was into her. She challenges me. I liked that. Too many people around me agreed too easily, and said exactly what they thought I wanted to hear. It had started to get boring. 

She wasn’t like that.

She told me off and she meant it. Like she didn’t care who I was supposed to be on paper.

"She literally told you to go fuck yourself," James pointed out.

"She doesn't hate me."

They all stared at me. 

I knew for a fact that she didn’t hate me. Because despite telling me off, she still blushed when I got close. Twice. She’d covered it fast and she was good at it, but I’d been standing close enough to see it happen first.

That wasn’t nothing. That was someone fighting something.

I just hadn’t decided what I was going to do about it yet.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"You're delusional," Marcus finally said.

"I could get her."

"Dude, she threw a drink at you. And told you to go fuck yourself. " Dylan reminded me.

"That just means she's passionate."

"That means she thinks you're an asshole," James corrected.

I looked around the table at their skeptical faces. "You really don't think I could get her?"

"Not a chance," they said in unison.

"You sure about that?"