Hate Should Be A Hockey Term

Morning After

CHASE

The bed was empty when I woke.

Sheets tangled, pillow still dented from where she’d collapsed. Amber—Ashley?—had ghosted around 3 a.m., heels clicking softly down the hall like she thought stealth was an option. It wasn’t. Thin walls go both ways.

Sunlight sliced through the curtains like a blade across my face.

Fuck.

I’d told Coach Reynolds no distractions. No hookups. No late nights bleeding into mornings. Off-season was supposed to be sacred—skill drills, conditioning, recovery, ice time. No panic attacks. No second-guessing every shift. Just work.

But last night…

She’d shown up at the door in that tiny dress, batting lashes, calling me “the golden boy,” and I’d let her in because Sloane’s voice had been echoing in my head all evening.

*Thin walls, remember?*

I’d f****d her louder than necessary.

Harder.

Meaner.

Like I was trying to drown something out.

Now the room smelled like her cheap vanilla body spray mixed with s*x and regret.

I grabbed my phone. 6:47 a.m.

Text from Marcus, five minutes old.

**M: Bro, you dip to Philly already?**

**C: Yeah. Home.**

**M: Sick. I’m in town with Jax and Tyler. Bryn Mawr rinks. Morning skates. Pull up.**

**C: [fire emoji] On my way.**

I rolled out of bed, snagged gym shorts from the floor, and headed for the bathroom.

Door locked.

Of course.

I knocked once. “Hey. Need in.”

Nothing.

Harder knock. “Sloane. I’ve got ice time. Open up.”

Water running. Shower. She was in there.

I pressed my forehead to the wood. “Come on. I’m on a schedule.”

Still nothing.

I jiggled the knob. “Sloane!”

Water kept running.

I banged again—louder. “I need to shower. Now.”

Finally the water cut.

A beat of silence.

Then her voice, cool and unbothered through the door:

“Use the downstairs one.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s across the damn house.”

“Then start walking, golden boy.”

My jaw locked. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” Innocent. Sweet. Deadly. “Taking a shower in the bathroom attached to *my* room?”

“It’s *shared*.”

“Then share better.”

I exhaled through my nose, counting to five. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still standing there.”

I slapped my palm against the door—once, hard. The sound cracked down the hallway.

Silence.

Then the lock clicked.

Door swung open.

Steam billowed out like smoke.

And there she was.

Hair twisted up in a white towel. Another wrapped tight around her body—mid-thigh, clinging in places the heat had made damp. Water droplets slid slow paths from her collarbone down into the valley between her breasts, disappearing under the edge of terry cloth. Skin flushed pink from the hot water. No makeup. Just freckles across her nose I hadn’t noticed last night, green eyes sharper without liner, lashes dark and wet.

She looked… smaller. Softer. Real.

And f**k if that didn’t hit harder than the towel drop I’d half-expected.

She tilted her head. “You gonna stand there gawking, or…?”

I dragged my gaze up. “Move.”

She didn’t.

Leaned one shoulder against the frame instead, arms crossed under her chest. The towel shifted—just enough to make my throat tighten.

“You know,” she said slowly, “for someone who made sure I heard every single detail last night, you’re awfully impatient this morning.”

Heat hit the back of my neck like a slapshot.

“That wasn’t—”

“Oh, it was.” Her smile was razor-thin. “You made *sure* of it.”

Memories slammed in:

Amber/Ashley on her knees.

My hand in her hair.

*“f**k… take it deeper.”*

*“You like being filled up, don’t you?”*

Her screams: *“Yes—God—harder—f**k—”*

The headboard slamming like punctuation.

I stared at Sloane.

She stared back. Unflinching.

“I don’t care who you f**k or how loud you do it,” she said quietly. “Just don’t act shocked when I return the favor.”

“Return the favor?”

“Thin walls, Chase.” She smiled sweetly. “They work both ways.”

Then she stepped aside, gesturing grandly into the steam-filled bathroom like she was bestowing a kingdom.

I didn’t move for a second.

She raised a brow. “Suddenly shy?”

I pushed past her—shoulder brushing hers, deliberate. Her skin was warm. She smelled clean, like citrus body wash and something floral underneath. Nothing like the heavy perfume still clinging to my sheets.

I turned back to say something sharp, but she’d already closed her door.

Lock clicked.

I stood in the steam, staring at the wood like it had personally betrayed me.

Then I cranked the shower to ice-cold and stepped under it, letting the needles of water punish every inch of skin that still remembered how she’d looked standing there—wet, defiant, untouchable.

---

Bryn Mawr rinks were empty at 7:15. Perfect.

I laced up fast in the locker room, tape ripping, helmet on, stick taped fresh. Marcus, Tyler, and Jax were already on the ice when I stepped out—blades cutting clean lines, pucks clacking.

“Let’s go!” Marcus bellowed, stick raised.

I glided out first, black practice jersey tight across my shoulders. Circled center ice once—habit—tapped my blade three times, flipped a puck airborne and caught it forehand like it was nothing.

Marcus coasted up, stick across his shoulders. “You good, man?”

I didn’t answer. Dropped the puck, deked left-right, snapped a wrister from the blue line. Top corner. Twine snapped like a gunshot.

“Always,” I said.

We split lines. Warm-ups: edges, crossovers, backward sprints. I pushed until my quads burned, lungs screamed. Sweat beaded under my helmet, dripped into my eyes. I loved the sting. Reminded me I was still here. Still hungry.

Marcus called one-on-ones. Full speed.

I went first against Tyler. Puck dropped. Three hard strides, shoulder low, stickhandling through cones like slalom gates. Tyler angled me off—I cut inside, toe-drag between his legs, ripped a wrist shot. Iron. High glove. Jax swore and reset.

Marcus laughed. “Sauce still nasty, Hartley.”

“Always was.”

We rotated. Full-ice rushes. Two-on-ones. Three-on-twos. Marcus and I hunted each other—eyes locked across the red line like predators. I carried through neutral, read his gap, delayed, chipped off the boards, blew past on the outside. Deked blocker, tucked five-hole when Jax bit.

Marcus glided over, grinning. “Cheat.”

“Skill,” I shot back. Gloves tapped.

Battle drills in the corners next. Shoulders collided. Sticks clashed. Marcus pinned me chest-to-chest once, breath hot on my ear. “You’re mine, pretty boy.”

I twisted, used his momentum, spun free, fed Tyler for the breakaway. Goal.

Marcus’s laugh echoed off empty stands. “One day, Hartley.”

“Keep dreaming.”

By 8:30 we were cooked. Legs jelly. Lungs scorched. Good ache everywhere.

We peeled gear on the bench—wet pads thudding to the floor. I stripped my jersey, undershirt plastered to every cut of muscle, steam rising off my skin in the cold rink air.

Tyler and Jax hit the showers. Marcus lingered, watching me pack.

“You’re different this summer,” he said low. “Focused. Mean.”

I zipped my bag. “Got scouts breathing down my neck.”

“You skipped the hotel last night. We had a blast. Then my pops called—family vacay in Philly. You could’ve come. Even saw Brittany there.”

My hands stilled on the zipper.

“Brittany?”

“Yeah. She had a shoot. Said she’s coming to Philly soon. Didn’t say when. ‘Surprise,’ she called it.”

I looked up. “She say anything else?”

Marcus shrugged. “Nah. But you know her. Always dramatic.”

Brittany.

The only girl I’d ever let close enough to hurt.

The one who walked when hockey started winning over her.

The one I still thought about on bad nights.

And now she was coming here.

To Philly.

To my summer.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, jaw tight.

“Surprises,” I muttered. “f*****g hate them.”

Marcus clapped my back. “You’ll handle it. You always do.”

I didn’t answer.

Because something told me this summer wasn’t just about scouts anymore.

It was about thin walls.

Locked doors.

Wet towels.

And an ex who knew exactly how to time her entrances.

I stepped out into the parking lot, sun already brutal.

And felt the weight settle heavier on my chest.

This wasn’t going to be clean.

Not even close.