Episode 5 : THE MONSTER THEY CREATED
1990 Words
The arena was packed.
Crowds roared from every corner.
The sheer volume of ten thousand voices trapped under a steel roof made the air hum with heavy vibration.
The final minutes of the game ticked down as Ryker skated across the ice.
He moved with an intensity that bordered on lethal, his blades cutting deep, sharp grooves into the frozen surface.
Another hit.
He lined up a winger against the boards, delivering a clean, punishing shoulder check that sent a shockwave through the plexiglass.
Another goal.
A sudden, blinding wrist shot off a turnover that caught the top shelf before the opposing goalie could even drop into his butterfly stance.
Another victory.
The scoreboard lit up, sealing the win, solidifying their dominant streak.
The crowd chanted his name.
"RYKER! RYKER! RYKER!"
The student section was a sea of flashing lights, raised banners, and stomping boots.
But none of it mattered.
The adulation felt entirely hollow, washing over him like cold, meaningless static.
Because sitting in the VIP section was the one person he never wanted to see.
High above the lower bowl, framed perfectly behind the pristine glass of a luxury corporate suite.
His father.
**Damian Hayes.**
Award-winning actor.
Hollywood superstar.
The man everyone loved.
The man Ryker hated.
Damian exuded an effortless, manufactured warmth that effortlessly captivated millions across the globe.
He wore a tailored wool coat, his signature silver-streaked hair styled flawlessly under the bright arena halogen lights.
Beside him sat another gorgeous woman.
Young.
Beautiful.
A rising model with high cheekbones and an expensive silk scarf draped loosely around her neck.
Probably girlfriend number twenty-something.
A recurring character in a revolving door of public appearances.
Ryker stopped looking immediately.
He snapped his gaze back to the ice, his vision narrowing until the periphery blurred into smears of white and black.
His jaw tightened.
The pressure in his teeth was immense, a physical manifestation of a psychological wall suddenly cracking open.
The memories came without warning.
They arrived with the force of an oncoming train, completely ignoring the barriers he had spent years constructing.
A little boy sitting on a couch.
The living room lights remained turned off to avoid drawing attention from the neighbors.
His mother waiting near the window.
Her silhouette thin and rigid, her fingers tightly clutching the edge of the linen curtains as cars passed by down the street.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
The digital clock on the microwave blinking past midnight, then one, then three in the morning.
And then crying when Damian never came home.
The quiet, muffled breaks in her breath that she tried desperately to hide from her son.
A younger Ryker hearing arguments through bedroom walls.
The toxic venom wrapped in practiced, theatrical delivery from a man who treated his own home like a movie set.
Broken promises.
Birthdays spent looking at an empty seat at the table, weekend trips canceled via a brief text message from a personal assistant.
Broken family photos.
A silver frame shattered against the hallway floor during a midnight exit, the glass splintering across a smiling portrait.
His mother's tears.
The slow, agonizing unraveling of a woman who had given everything to a ghost.
Then the memories vanished.
Just as quickly as they had appeared.
The sharp reality of the present slammed back into his chest as the cold air filled his lungs.
A whistle blew.
The game continued.
The linesman dropped the puck, and the sound of sticks clattering broke his momentary paralysis.
But Ryker couldn't focus anymore.
The tactical discipline that made him a scout's dream evaporated, replaced by a dark, volatile heat.
Every glance toward the VIP section made his anger worse.
The spatial awareness he usually possessed turned into a hyper-fixation on that single, elevated box of glass.
Damian wasn't even watching the game.
He wasn't tracking the play, nor did he look at the scoreboard to see his own son's statistics.
He was busy talking to his girlfriend.
Leaning in close to whisper something that made her smile, swirling a glass of high-end amber liquor in his hand.
Laughing.
That perfect, media-trained smile flashed under the suite’s ambient lighting.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Like he'd never destroyed a family.
Like he'd never abandoned them.
Like he hadn't left a trail of emotional wreckage in his wake while he chased the next horizon.
Something snapped inside Ryker.
The thin line separating competitive aggression from absolute fury disintegrated completely.
The next player who came near him took a brutal hit.
An opposing defenseman caught a loose puck along the left boards, completely unaware of the freight train tracking him.
Hard.
Too hard.
Ryker launched his weight through the check, delivering an impact that wasn't designed to separate the man from the puck—it was designed to hurt.
The crowd gasped.
A sudden, collective intake of breath echoed through the arena as the player dropped to the ice.
The referee immediately blew the whistle.
Penalty.
The official’s arm shot into the air, pointing directly at Ryker with a look of stern disbelief.
Ryker ignored it.
He didn't skate toward the penalty box; he stood his ground, his chest heaving, his gloved hands clenching into tight balls.
Another opposing player shoved him.
A vengeful teammate rushed over, slamming his hands into Ryker's chest protector to defend his fallen friend.
Ryker shoved back.
He didn't just push—he violently drove his forearm into the player's neck, forcing him backward into the goal frame.
Then another.
Three more jerseys converged on him, a sea of opposing colors attempting to pin him down.
Then fists started flying.
Ryker ripped his gloves off, letting them clatter onto the scarred ice as he leaned into the fray.
The crowd erupted.
The stadium turned into a powder keg, the roars of approval and condemnation blending into a terrifying din.
Players rushed in.
Both benches cleared, skaters spraying ice as they sprinted across the red line to join the escalating melee.
Coaches screamed.
Men in suits stood on the wooden benches, slamming their clipboards against the glass, their faces red with desperate fury.
The fight became chaos.
A tangled, violent knot of bodies, helmets, and sticks sliding across the zone, completely out of the officials' control.
By the time security separated everyone, two players had bloody noses.
The ice was marred by small, dark spots of crimson near the crease.
And Ryker looked ready to kill someone.
His jersey was torn at the collar, his hair matted with sweat, his eyes locked onto the VIP box as linesmen physically dragged him toward the tunnel.
Upstairs, Damian Hayes was finally standing, looking down with a cool, expressionless face before turning his back to the ice.
—
The next morning.
The autumn air was crisp, forcing students to bury their faces in thick scarves as they navigated the quad.
Lila walked into campus carrying her coffee.
The warm paper cup offered comfort against the morning chill, but the mood around her was notably tense.
Immediately, she noticed everyone staring at their phones.
Groups of people stood near the library entrance, huddled over screens, whispering quietly to one another.
Whispering.
Talking.
Looking shocked.
The usual morning banter had been replaced by a heavy, speculative energy that filled the walkways.
"What happened?" she asked Ethan.
Ethan groaned, rubbing his temples as he leaned against a concrete pillar.
"You haven't seen the news?"
"What news?"
Lila pulled her jacket tighter around herself, a sudden knot forming in her stomach at his tone.
He showed her his phone.
Lila's eyes widened.
A giant headline filled the screen in bold, merciless lettering.
**HOCKEY STAR RYKER HAYES ATTACKS PLAYER IN UNPROVOKED RAGE**
Below the text was a looped video clip of the hit, capturing the exact moment Ryker lost control and threw his gloves.
Another article read:
**THE DARK SIDE OF COLLEGE'S FAVORITE ATHLETE**
Another.
**VIOLENT OUTBURST RAISES QUESTIONS ABOUT RYKER HAYES**
The national sports blogs had already picked up the feed, running psychological profiles based on thirty seconds of shaky footage.
Lila frowned.
She stared at the image of Ryker being held back by three officials, his face masked in pure, unadulterated anger.
That didn't sound right.
The Ryker she observed on campus was quiet, almost invisible by choice, fiercely protective of his space but never needlessly cruel.
"What happened?"
"He got suspended."
Her eyes widened.
"What?"
"One game."
Ethan sighed, taking his phone back and sliding it into his pocket.
"The media is making it look worse than it was."
Lila kept scrolling on her own device, opening the local sports forum.
The comments were horrible.
Anonymous users tore into his character with vicious efficiency, hiding behind avatars to pass judgment.
*Violent.*
*Dangerous.*
*Unstable.*
*Monster.*
*Thug.*
The words repeated across hundreds of threads, transforming an athletic penalty into a moral execution.
She hated how quickly people judged someone.
The speed at which the internet constructed a monster out of a single bad day was terrifying.
Especially when they didn't know the truth.
They didn't see the context; they didn't see the catalyst that turned a disciplined athlete into a weapon.
—
Across campus.
The shadow of the training facility offered a bleak sanctuary from the bright morning sun.
Ryker sat alone outside the arena.
The concrete bench was cold beneath him, matching the hollow numbness settling into his bones.
His phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
It lay on the wooden slat next to him, vibrating continuously against the timber, an relentless source of noise.
Messages.
Articles.
News notifications.
Reporters.
Public relations staff, agents, and old acquaintances from home were all trying to breach his silence.
Everyone wanted a story.
A statement, an apology, a defense—anything that could generate another round of content.
Nobody wanted the truth.
Nobody cared about the sequence of events that actually led to the break in his composure.
He tossed his phone onto the bench, pushing it several feet away until it hit the metal support frame.
A few seconds later it rang again.
The screen illuminated, displaying a name that made the breath catch in his throat.
*Dad.*
Ryker laughed bitterly.
A sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the brick wall behind him, entirely devoid of mirth.
Then declined the call.
Immediately.
His thumb slammed against the red icon without a single moment of hesitation.
The phone rang again.
The same name flashed on the screen, persistent and demanding, refusing to be dismissed.
He declined it again.
Then switched it off completely.
He held the power button down until the screen faded to black, cutting off the digital lifeline to the outside world.
For a long moment he sat there staring at nothing.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the distant sound of campus traffic and the rustle of dry leaves.
The suspension didn't bother him.
He could handle sitting out a game, and he could handle the extra conditioning laps his coach would undoubtedly assign.
The media didn't bother him.
He spent his entire childhood watching the press distort reality; he knew exactly how worthless their praise and their criticism truly were.
But seeing Damian Hayes yesterday?
Seeing him sit there like an unbothered spectator, entirely detached from the wreckage he had created years ago?
That had destroyed him.
It shattered the carefully cultivated illusion that he had moved past the abandonment, that he was immune to the man's presence.
And he hated himself for letting it happen.
He hated that a single look could still compromise his focus, reducing him to that vulnerable child waiting by the window.
Because after all these years...
Despite the miles, the silence, and the new life he had carved out for himself on the ice...
His father still had the power to ruin his day.
The man still held an invisible tether to his peace of mind, able to snap it with a casual laugh from a VIP box.
And that was the thing Ryker hated most.
- Writer
