On thin ice

I didn’t even feel my fist leave my body. One second Carter Vale’s mouth was moving, saying something about my sister that made the ice under my skates feel like it was cracking open. The next second my knuckles were buried in his face and blood was already painting the white surface red. The arena went dead quiet for half a heartbeat. Then it exploded. People screamed. Phones lit up like a thousand tiny stars. I stood over him, chest heaving so hard it hurt, gloves already off, the metallic taste of adrenaline thick in my throat. Vale was on his knees, hands cupped under his nose, blood pouring between his fingers. He looked up at me with pure shock, like he couldn’t believe I’d actually done it. Neither could I. “Harrington! Box! Now!” The ref’s voice barely cut through the roaring in my ears. Two of my teammates grabbed my arms and dragged me toward the penalty box. I let them. My legs felt disconnected, like they belonged to someone else. Coach’s face on the bench was the color of old paper. He didn’t even yell. That was worse. I sat in the box with my helmet still on, staring through the glass while the trainers helped Vale off the ice. The jumbotron replayed the hit in slow motion on a loop. My fist connecting. The spray of blood. The empty look on my own face. I wanted to throw up. My phone was already buzzing itself to death in my bag under the bench. I didn’t need to look. I knew exactly what the internet was doing with that clip. Hockey’s golden boy loses his mind. Is this the end of Jax Harrington? Another privileged athlete who thinks he can get away with anything. The buzzer sounded. I stood on autopilot and skated straight to the tunnel without looking at anyone. Coach intercepted me before I reached the locker room, fist clenched in the front of my jersey, and hauled me into his office. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the framed team photos on the wall. “What the f**k was that?” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out except a shaky breath. Coach dragged both hands down his face. He looked older than he had twenty minutes ago. “You’re lucky Vale’s not pressing charges yet. The league is already calling. The university is already calling. Your agent is losing his goddamn mind. And every camera in that arena caught the whole thing in 4K.” I stared at the floor, jaw locked so tight it ached. My knuckles still throbbed. I could still hear Vale’s voice in my head, soft and ugly: Heard your sister’s still in the hospital. Guess the Harringtons really are cursed. “You’re done for the rest of the season,” Coach said. “Minimum. Maybe longer. And if you don’t fix this image problem yesterday, the draft boards are going to bury you so deep no one will ever dig you out.” I finally looked up. My voice came out rough. “How the hell am I supposed to fix it?” Coach’s expression shifted into something that almost looked like pity. It made my stomach turn. He slid a tablet across the desk. On the screen was a press release draft and a headshot of a girl I recognized instantly. Avery Quinn. Campus radio host. The one who’d spent the last two years dragging hockey players on air like it was a personal hobby. The one who’d roasted me after the last charity event when I’d shown up late and half-drunk. Sharp eyes. Unimpressed mouth. The exact opposite of every girl who’d ever smiled at me because of the jersey on my back. Under her photo were three words in bold black letters: PROPOSED FAKE RELATIONSHIP. I laughed once, short and broken. “You’re joking.” Coach didn’t smile. “There’s a new campus reality show filming this semester. They’re calling it Campus Heat. Your agent already talked to the producers. They want the ‘redemption arc’ storyline. You and Avery Quinn dating. Publicly. For the cameras. Until the noise dies down and the scouts remember why they wanted you in the first place.” I shoved the tablet away hard enough that it nearly slid off the desk. “She hates me.” “She also needs the exposure and the stipend they’re offering,” Coach said quietly. “And right now, so do you. This is the only life raft you’ve got left, Harrington. You either grab it, or you drown.” I stared at Avery’s face on the screen. Something cold and heavy settled in my chest. The idea of pretending to be with her—of smiling for cameras while the whole world watched me try to crawl out of the hole I’d just dug—made my skin crawl. Outside the office, I could already hear the media waiting in the parking lot. Phones out. Microphones ready. Vultures. I kept my head down and walked straight through them. Cameras flashed. Someone shouted my name. I didn’t stop. The night air hit my face like a slap, cold enough to sting. Somewhere across campus, Avery Quinn was probably already writing the segment that would finish what was left of my reputation. She had no idea she was about to become part of the wreckage instead.