Page 50 of Ice Queen

“Sterling, he’s had enough,” Reed’s voice bellows from the bench.

“Last I checked, you weren’t the coach, Reed. Sit down,” he says victoriously. I wonder how long he’s been waiting to pull that card. He certainly wouldn’t have gotten away with this if Coach Stevens were here.

Reed already tried to hop the boards to skate with me twice. But every time he’s been threatened with everything from fines to bench time. None of which is warranted.

I push off again, blue line to red. Red to blue. Drop, do five push-ups. Hop up, sprint, then stop hard enough that snow sprays back into my own face.

My legs aren’t responding the way they should anymore. There’s a delay between my thoughts and the movement. I pivot a bit too slow, and my knees hit the ice, hard. The impact shoots pain up my spine. My stick clatters to the ice as I spin helplessly into the boards. The air leaves me in one humiliating wheeze.

My chest heaves as I try to drag in enough oxygen into a pair of lungs that are currently on strike. My stomach lurches violently, but I swallow against it.

“Again, Samuels.” Sterling’s voice cuts through the otherwise silent practice arena. When I don’t move, he blows the whistle with enough force that my teammates start hissing. “I said, again.”

“Listen, Herb.” I cough, straightening up enough that I can turn my head to look at him. “This isn’t Olympic tryouts. We have a game tomorrow. I’m going to be useless if you keep this up.”

He shuffles over, looming in front of me. “Useless?” His mouth curls into a devious smirk. “You’ve been useless for months.”

My body tenses, the muscles in my back tightening as I fight the urge to swing on him. “I’ve been at this for an hour and a half. Nonstop. I’d like to see you do this.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m the coach, not a player then, huh?”

A few helmets come into view behind him. Wilder mutters something that sounds a heck of a lot like “asshole.”

Sterling straightens. “Get up and do it again, Samuels.”

I don’t.

He taps the toe of his shoe against my skate. Not hard, but just enough to be demeaning. “You think that just because you’re on Stevens’ good side, you’re unbreakable?”

There it is, this was never about conditioning or punishment. This was another one of his attempts to break me.

“Sterling!” Mr. Collins’ voice is a welcome interruption. Every head turns in his direction.

Sterling doesn't move, but he tenses. It’s subtle, but not subtle enough for me to miss.

“That is more than enough,” Collins says, stepping up on the bench so he has a height advantage.

I push myself up on shaky hands, hoping to look less like a pathetic heap of a man in front of our owner. I said I’d take the punishment. I meant it. But this? This goes beyond that.

When I try to stand, my legs fly out behind me. There’s a split second where I know I’m going down but am helpless to stop it. My chin catches the ledge of the boards with a sickening crack. The sound is wrong, and for a second there, there’s no pain. Just warmth.

My knees hit the ice, one hand still steadying me on the ledge as I watch the first drop of blood hit the ice in a bright red splat. There’s a moment of silence where I swear you could hear the second it hit the cold surface beneath me, and then my entire team erupts.

“What the hell!” Wilson yells.

“Are you kidding me?” Andrews says at the same time.

Reed hops on the ice before anyone can stop him. Wilder’s in front of me in the blink of an eye. Gloves hit the ice, sticks scatter. Abby sprints from the tunnel, not even waiting for the door to be fully open. She steps onto the ice in her athletic shoes, nearly slipping as she drops to her knees in front of me.

Her hands reach out for mine. “What did he do?” she whispers, eyes cutting to our coach, who is shooting daggers in our direction. “I hate that guy,” she tacks on.

“I’m fine,” I lie, though the words slur slightly.

“You’re bleeding all over the damn Ice, Sammy,” Wilder snaps. “You’re not fine.”

Sterling blows his whistle again. A ballsy move with the team owner still on the bench. “Everyone back to the line,” he says coldly. “Samuels tripped. It happens.”

He’s clueless to the anger simmering just beneath the surface of everyone in this arena. Slowly. Deliberately. Reed turns to face him, positioning himself between Wilder, Abby, and me.