MY HOCKEY STEPBROTHER'S GAME

A CAPTAIN?

VIVIAN'S POV

The same pair of green eyes are staring at me twenty-eight hours later. Actually, twenty eight hours, forty minutes, and five seconds. Plus ten thousand miles away from Riverbend, my small hometown.

What the hell is he doing here?

“This is Brook Hunter, our best Hockey Captain.”

His lips lift in a smirk, but there's something underneath it. A purpose.

“You are both writers?” Brook says in a deep masculine voice that makes my heart sink to the depth of my stomach.

How? Why?

“My friend here is a very good writer. She is looking towards building her portfolio. You really need to read her writeups. Superb!” Clara pauses. “I am just a volunteer.”

Can she just stop talking?

Ugh.

Brook's eyes trails over me and lands on the brown notebook I was clutching close to my hip. There were poorly hand drawn diagrams of butterfly migration patterns on it. The same ones I've drawn on every notebook since my brother taught me how to trace the wings. To him, butterflies were proof that you can still fly despite being broken. I was twelve, and he was seventeen when he died.

“You write with that?” There is a bit of distaste in his voice, like I'm offending him by existing.

“N…no..” I manage to say, my voice barely a whisper.

My laptop lies in the bag hanging over my shoulder.

Brook hums, a low sound that vibrates in my chest. “You guys look like friends.”

Clara is dying of happiness beside me, tightening her hold around my arm with a frantic drum slamming against my ribs.

This morning, Clara had waltzed into my dorm with coffee and a grin of mischief.

‘Guess who's covering the Ice hawks' season opener.’ She'd screamed.

I had said no. Said I would kill her.

‘Already signed you up. You can thank me later. I'm not feeling very thankful right now.’

“Definitely. Vivian and I have known each other since we were kids. Funny, right?” She laughs, brushing her hair behind her ear as though she was flirting with him.

“You dress like this to every game.” He sizes me up then look at Clara in a plain expression.

I clench my jaw.

Asshole.

“We need to get prepared for the match.” Mr Lee announces and Brook's eyes lingers on me for a long time before he heads back to join the others on the ice for practice, his stakes leaving clean lines on the ice.

My friend is wearing a beautifully patterned orange, blue and green corset top with a pair of short black skirt with fabric gathered on the sides.

And I..

Well, I had on the oversized cardigan I had stolen from my brother before his death, faded but still in good use and a pair of jogger to go with it.

It was my lucky charm. The last thing of his that still smelled like him even though the scent had faded years ago.

“Oh my freaking god. He's hot….” Clara sounds breathless, her eyes glued on his retreating frame.

I pull my eyes off the tall frame and look at my best friend. She's drooling over him.

“We can't do this. I can't…”

That is when she looks at me with her expression changing to something sharper. “What happened, Vivian? You look…weird.”

The heat oozing through my body increases and I'm sweating, my palms sticky against the notebook.

“Can we please go home?”

“Hell no, Vivian. Do you know how many people would kill to be here?”

And I would kill to not be here.

“Plus you need this article. Imagine the number of companies that would take you in with an empty portfolio. Exactly zero.”

She was right. I needed this.

Dad's face flashes in my mind.

The same man whose memory Mom's trying to erase by forcing me to meet her new man. That will never happen.

Becoming a Renowned Writer is the only way I can make it up to Dad.

“The match is starting. Let's go.” Clara pulls me into the crowd and soon I help her hand out tickets to people who came to watch, my fingers becoming numb. The atmosphere is filled with drums, songs and girls giggling, a wave of joy that feels foreign to me.

This is my first time in a place like this.

The arena is packed fast. When the game begins, Clara is nowhere in sight, probably off drooling over some hot guy, while I'm sitting here, in the first three rows with the other participating writers, staring at the players in the rink like there are insects I have to carefully dissect.

My phone sits on my lap with the screen displaying a recent search of each player. While my laptop is open with a blank document and a black line that won't stop blinking. An evidence of my lack of inspiration.

“Icehawks goal! Scored by your captain, number 27. Brock Hunter known as the Ice Reaper.”

My eyes move to the ice. 27 throws one hand in the air, some others pat him on the shoulder.

The game continues and Icehawks dominate while my eyes follow him closely.

Number 27 moves like he owns the ice with every shot of his so precise. I must say he is annoyingly good at this and the crowd can’t stop cheering him up.

Every kick of his comes with a loud roar from the crowd that almost brings down the building.

Then it happens.

The opposing player has the puck first. He’s fast, too, weaving through the defenders before Brook cuts across the ice and lowers his shoulder to drive straight through the guy’s chest.

The sound echoes through the arena. A sickening crack that makes him crumble with his leg twisting so bad. My stomach turn.

That’s sickening. Brutal.

Brook just skates away with a second glance. He doesn’t even bother to help the injured player up or show some panic of some sort.

He moves to the bench, lifting his helmet and what I find on his face is a smirk.

My stomach drops.

The ref doesn’t blow the whistle and the crowd that had fallen quiet suddenly breaks out in a cheer.

Is this…Hockey?

What am I supposed to write about?

After minutes of angst, torture, and too much horror for a game, it finally comes to an end with Icehawks winning by four goals.

I finally close my empty laptop. There had been nothing to write about.

The place is almost empty with everyone slipping out and I do, too. Before remembering I need to find Clara so I turn towards a different direction. Out of a less crowded door.

“You were pathetic out there!” Those words make me freeze. It’s coming from the same voice from the rooftop.

I turn my head around and he’s there with a dark haired player, Number 65 standing before him. He has his head lowered.

“Captain, I just wanted to say…”

Brook steps closer, towering over the kid. “My grandmother can do better. You don’t belong on the ice.”

When the kid looks up, his face is crumpled with defeat.

“I’m sorry…I will do better.”

“I didn’t get here by being sorry. Maybe you should stick to the junior league, something more your speed.”

Before the kid can speak, Brook cuts in.

“I make the rules.”

I watch as Brook storms off and my heart pounds. The kid drops to his knees, sobbing between his palms.

The urge to go comfort him overrides my need to find my friend.

I take a step when a tap on my shoulder sends my head sideways. Clara is there, beaming from ear to ear.

“You won’t believe who I just spoke with.” Her eyes widens. “Girl, the Ryder Mercer! Gosh! He’s cuteeee.” She’s gushing over him. “Can you write something about him for me?”

“Huh!”

She pulls my hand. “Come on. Pretty please. I think he’s my soulmate, Viv. I can feel it.”

Yea, she said that two crushes ago.

We are approaching the interview area before I know it. I drag in a breath. I just want to get out of here.

Too much crowd.

The air is thick with different colognes. There are reporters lining every space with their camera flashes and long mics pointed in faces of the ones unfortunate to be in the limelight.

It’s a life I don’t see for myself.

“See!!” My best friend is close to jumping as she hits me severally and points at the direction of the Ryder.

He’s tall, muscular, and he’s undeniably handsome. I am right and he is from the opposite team. His eyes drifts towards us, and I could have sworn he winked at her.

“He winked! I told you we were soulmates.” She giggles.

I have so many questions to ask. Like how they met, and all but not here.

It’s too much noise a body can handle.

I hear a familiar laugh and my body freezes. My breath hitches. My eyes subconsciously go in the direction and Brook is standing there, laughing at something the interviewer said.

“Is it true that Team Work contributed to one of the reasons your team won?” The innocent female reporter who didn’t witness the brutality he executed earlier stares at him like he’s the purest thing she has ever seen.

How can they not tell?

Probably because he hides it so well.

A smirk rides up his lips. “We won simply because I’m the best.”

The camera flashes. She nods.

While I watch his cockiness. That's when my eyes catch a figure in a black hoodie, and a mask in a corner behind him, staring at me.

In a second, whoever it is, is gone.

When I finally get back to the apartment I share with my best friend that night, I’m more than pleased that I don’t have to endure a bit more of whatever that was.

“So what do you think?” She’s trying on dresses and checking herself in the mirror. “You want to know why I push you so hard. It's because my parents got divorced because he just…” She lets out a hollow laugh. “...let her go. Sometimes what you love is worth fighting for.”

My heart squeezes. My phone dings.

An email.

I pull it down and it’s my lecturer.

“Pick a character study from the hockey t

eams today, and write about them in their authenticity. This assignment makes up 60% of your grade. Submission in two days.”

The only face that flashes in my mind is his.

Brook.

He will be my case study.