Chapter 82: The Mask We Wear
Damon’s POV
"I’m afraid you won’t be able to play today, son," Coach said, staring down at me with a heavy, unreadable look. He looked genuinely disappointed, but I couldn’t care less. If I wasn’t cleared to hit the ice with these fractured ribs, then fine. I could easily sit back, relax, and watch the chaos unfold from the sidelines instead.
Behind me, the rest of the guys on the team pulled synchronized faces of deep sorrow, acting like they were heartbroken that their beloved assistant captain was benched.
Fake ass niggas.
Every single one of them was putting on a pathetic show. I knew the truth. If there was ever a magic button to ensure both Noah and I were permanently wiped from the active roster, half these bastards would press it in a heartbeat. My absence was just an open door for them to steal the spotlight, show off for the crowd, and try to claim my spot.
Speaking of the team’s survival, I pulled my gaze away from the sea of fake sympathetic faces and focused back on Coach.
"Students from Jenson University are already filling up the stands," I said, leaning my lower back against the equipment counter. "They didn’t come for fun. They’re here to assess our playstyle before the main championship."
Coach let out a low, tired breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I suspect the exact same thing, Damon. But what do you expect us to do? We can’t just throw them out. This friendly game was arranged on short notice yesterday, and rejecting it would have made us look like cowards."
"True," I admitted smoothly. "We can’t kick them out of a public arena. And even if we tried, look around—there are already people sitting in the upper bleachers with high-end cameras recording every movement." A sharp sigh slipped past my lips as a tactical idea crossed my mind. "We should play rough. Play completely uncoordinated and let the visiting team take the win. Let’s make it look like our lines are falling apart, maybe even throw a few staged fights on the ice. If they leave here thinking we’re an absolute joke, they’ll drop their guard for the real tournament."
The moment the words left my mouth, low mumblings broke out among the players behind me. They exchanged uneasy, reluctant glances. Even Coach began slowly stroking his chin, weighing the heavy pros and cons.
I knew why they were hesitating. There were top-tier collegiate scouts sitting in those very bleachers today. The guys didn’t want to look like brainless ruffians in front of recruiters; they wanted to put on a show, score flashy goals, and secure their professional futures.
"What do you think, Captain?" I called out across the room, shifting my eyes over to where Noah was standing by his locker, pulling his dark padded gear over his shoulders.
The heavy metal door of Noah’s locker slammed shut with a sharp, deafening BANG that echoed like a gunshot through the room.
Instantly, all chatter ceased. Every single eye in the locker room traveled directly to him.
"I don’t give a damn about the students from Jenson University," Noah rasped, his voice cold, steady, and razor-sharp. He didn’t even look at me as he strapped his wrist guards into place. "And the absolute last thing I will ever do is purposely throw a match just because their pathetic scouts decided to show up."
He slowly turned around, his icy blue eyes sweeping across the entire room, pinning every single player under his lethal gaze.
"If those bastards want to sit up there and watch how we play, then let’s give them a damn show," Noah stated, his voice rising with a commanding power that made the air in the room feel dense. "Let them take their notes. Let them record every strategy we have. If they go back home and work twice as hard to prepare for us, then good. That just means our victory at the championship will be even sweeter. What’s the matter with you all? Are you suddenly terrified of a tough game?!"
"NO!" the entire room chorused in unison, the players’ previous hesitation instantly vaporized by his words.
Noah stepped into the center of the room, slamming his hockey stick against the concrete floor. "They came into our house thinking they could intimidate us! They think because Damon is benched, our offensive line is weak! Are we going to let some arrogant rivals dictate how we skate on our home turf?!"
"NO WAY!" the guys roared back, their eyes lighting up with aggressive, competitive hunger.
"Then get your minds right!" Noah growled, pointing a heavy gloved finger toward the exit door. "We go out there, we hit hard, we play fast, and we crush them so badly they’ll be having nightmares about us until the tournament! We don’t hide, and we damn sure don’t throw games!"
A wave of wild cheering and shouting erupted through the locker room as the team began banging their sticks against the metal benches in a rhythmic, deafening war cry.
I leaned back, folding my arms tightly across my chest as a dark smirk climbed onto my lips. I couldn’t help but admire the execution. I had known from the very beginning there was zero chance Noah Miller would ever agree to intentionally lose a match. His monstrous, sky-high pride wouldn’t allow it. But watching him effortlessly manipulate the team’s fear and turn it into raw, aggressive adrenaline was a masterclass in leadership.
"Alright, boys!" Coach shouted over the deafening noise, clapping his hands loudly. "You’ve got fifteen minutes to finish gearing up! Move it!"
As the players scattered to grab their helmets and gloves, Noah unclipped his helmet from his belt. Instead of heading straight for the ice tunnel, his sharp eyes locked onto mine. He began walking directly toward where I was leaning.
My brows raised in genuine surprise. It was an absolute rarity for the high-and-mighty Captain to willingly approach me. I braced myself slightly, shifting my weight.
’Is this bastard really about to throw a punch at me right in front of the entire team?’ I internally doubted it. As unhinged as Noah could be when it came to his brother, he cared far too much about maintaining his authoritative image in front of his players to cause a public scene.
"It’s rare to see you walk up to me, Captain," I said, letting a taunting smirk spread across my face.
Noah stopped less than two feet away from me. He didn’t look angry; his expression was entirely flat.
"Keep an eye on Micah," he said, his voice dropping into a low frequency so only I could hear.
My jaw almost dropped right off my face. My eyes widened as a rare wave of absolute shock hit me.
"W-what?" I stammered out, failing to keep the utter bewilderment out of my voice.
What the actual hell was happening right now? Was I hallucinating from the pain meds? Was this some kind of twisted fever dream? No, no, no. There was fundamentally no universe in which Noah Miller—the possessive, crazy tyrant who would murder anyone for breathing near his younger brother—would voluntarily ask me to watch over Micah.
"Are you indirectly giving me permission, or threatening me not to lay a hand on him?" I asked, narrowing my eyes as my smirk returned, sharper this time.
Noah’s forehead creased into a heavy, terrifying scowl. "I am definitely not telling you to lay your filthy, disgusting hands on him," he growled out, his voice laced with pure venom. "Just keep your eyes on him while I’m on the ice. If I look up at the media zone and see you touch even a single hair on his head, I will shoot a puck straight through your skull at a hundred miles an hour."
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel, slammed his helmet over his head, and marched out the locker room door toward the rink.
A dark, involuntary shudder ran down my spine, but a wide smirk climbed right back onto my lips. Fascinating. I definitely had no desire to take a hard rubber puck to the face, but the fact that Noah was desperate enough to ask me for help meant he was spiraling. He was terrified of something. He knew George Jenson was hunting around Micah, and he couldn’t protect his precious little brother while locked on the ice.
"Damon?"
A quiet voice broke through my thoughts. I turned my head toward the side door to see one of the rookie bench players standing in the frame, looking hesitant.
"What is it?" I asked, pushing myself off the counter.
"Someone is waiting for you right outside the side entrance," the rookie said, rubbing the back of his neck. "She said it was urgent."
My brows furrowed in confusion. She? Who on earth would be looking for me at the sports complex right before a game? Micah was up in the bleachers with the media team, and I wasn’t expecting any family visitors.
Curiosity overrode the dull throb in my ribs. I turned around, pushed open the heavy metallic doors of the player corridor, and stepped out into the quiet, chilly side hallway leading toward the external exits.
The moment the door swung wide, a striking flash of platinum blonde hair caught the lighting of the corridor.
I froze dead in my tracks. Every single muscle in my body locked up as my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides, my fingernails digging so hard into my palms that they almost drew blood. The air in my lungs completely turned to ice.
"Hey, Damon," the girl said, stepping out from the shadows. A polished, flawless smile spread across her lips as her bright eyes locked onto mine. "It’s been a really long time, hasn’t it?"
Fuck.
A wave of dark, buried memories crashed over my mind like a tidal wave. My stomach twisted into a sickening knot of pure irritation and deep dread.
Ha... I really, truly should have just stayed in bed today.