Taming the obnoxious hockey captain

Chapter 2: The stuff I'm made of.

Ezra

“What the fuck am I seeing all over the internet about you, Don?”

Coach Hamburg storms into the locker room the second I pull my shirt over my head. The news has already spread like blood in water. One article. A few hours. And suddenly every sports blog, fan account, and campus page has decided I’m the villain of the year.

It’s hard enough balancing psych classes with being captain. Now this.

“Coach, calm down. It’s not—”

“Have you seen how many people are tearing you apart?” He grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath. “I don’t allow that kind of shit on my ice. You know that.”

He shoves his tablet against my chest. I scroll. The comments are worse than I expected. Death threats mixed with people trying to defend me and getting ripped apart for it. I stare longer, confused.

“What the hell happened out there? Did you actually do it?”

I yank on my red varsity jacket and shove my jersey into the duffel on the bench. “I was blackout drunk that night with the guys. All I remember is leaving the rink after practice.”

I dig for anything else. Nothing comes. Just a blank stretch of time and the sick knowledge that something bad filled it.

I hand the tablet back. “Is this going to bury me?”

Coach answers by flinging a brown envelope at my face. I catch it before it hits the floor and tear it open.

Shit.

“The NHL is involved?”

“You put a player on the floor hard enough that he still isn’t cleared for practice. What did you think was going to happen?”

The letter blurs for a second. Official investigation. Timeline. Hearing date. My name printed at the top in case file. This isn’t going away quietly.

The door flies open before I can speak. My father walks in.

Coach tries first. “Mr. Donatello, if you would—”

Dad shoves him aside. The first slap lands on my left cheek. Then the right. Then the left again. A kick drives into my ribs and I hit the floor hard, curling around the pain. This is how Elijah Donatello corrects his son. It always has been.

“You had one job,” he snarls. “One fucking job, and you couldn’t even do that right.”

Coach tries to step in. Dad turns on him with the kind of stillness that empties a room.

Coach holds the stare for half a second, then glances at me with guilt. He mouths *be strong* and slips out, shutting the door behind him.

I stay down. The kicks always hurt more than I expect.

“Dad, I can explain—”

“You better start talking fast. If it’s not worth my time, you might as well order the casket yourself.”

He strips off his cufflinks, rolls his sleeves, and crouches in front of me.

I open my mouth. Blood runs warm over my tongue. “I was drunk. I don’t remember anything. But I know I didn’t do what they’re saying.”

Elijah Donatello only believes what he decides to believe. Looking at him now, I already know which version he’s chosen.

“Where’s the proof, Ezra?”

“I just told you. I was drunk.”

“Don’t.” He grabs my shirt and drives his fist into the locker beside my head. The metal rings. “You want to ruin everything we’ve built? Is that what this is?”

His eyes are wide, furious, but the sight doesn’t move me the way it used to. I’ve watched this performance too many times. There’s no point arguing once he’s decided I’m the problem.

He lets go and stands, smoothing the front of his jacket like we’re in a boardroom instead of a locker room that still smells of sweat. “You always talk about not wanting me to meddle. But how the hell am I supposed to stay out of it when you keep destroying everything?”

That’s my dad.

Former NHL defenseman. One minute he’s on the floor with you. The next he’s fixing his cuffs as if nothing happened. It took me seventeen years to understand the pattern. Now that I do, it will never work on me the same way again.

“How do you plan to fix this?” He hauls me to my feet.

I stand straight even though my face is throbbing and my lip is split. “I’ll handle it my way. So back off.”

I match his stare.

He lets out a short, cold laugh. “Handle it your way. Right.” He picks the letter up off the floor and holds it between two fingers. “You’ve got a hearing date, a suspended season, and your name on every platform from here to Vancouver. That’s what your way looks like so far.”

“Then let it look like that.” I take the letter from him. “It’s still mine.”

The calm cracks for half a second. His jaw tightens. “You’re one hell of a kid.”

He shoulders past me hard enough to knock me sideways and walks out.

The second the door shuts, I let my back hit the lockers and slide down an inch. Exhaustion hits all at once. My fists hang open at my sides.

“Why do you let him treat you like that?”

I look up. Quido Rivers is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. Our left defenseman. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

A tired sound escapes my throat. “I’m twenty-two and my dad still puts me on the floor. Real inspiring, right?”

Quido pushes off the wall and crosses to me. His eyes do that quiet worried thing that's always so obvious “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

He starts to sling an arm around my shoulders. I shrug it off before it lands.

“Don’t. Save the speech.”

He steps back, hands up. Knows better than to push when I’m like this.

I fold the letter once and shove it into my jacket pocket. The hearing date sits in the back of my mind but I don't tell him. That is if he doesn't already know about it.

Quido heads for the door, then stops and turns. “So what are you going to do?”

I grab my duffel and sling it over my shoulder. My face still burns. My ribs ache with every breath and somewhere out there a girl with a byline and zero fear decided my life was fair game.

I meet Quido’s eyes.

“I’m going to talk to the journalist who started this.”

I walk out before he can answer.

The campus air is cold enough to sting the split in my lip. I don’t feel it. All I can think about is the name that keeps appearing under every version of the article.

Hailey Nirvana.

She’s about to learn that destroying someone on paper is a lot easier than facing them when they show up at your door.