Same thing.I'm open, calling for it, and the puck goes anywhere but to me.
The third time, Reaper actually skates past me with the puck, close enough that I could reach out and touch him, and dumps it into the corner instead of passing.
"What the fuck?" I mutter under my breath.
"You got something to say, West?" Reaper's in my face immediately, his stick coming up between us.
"Yeah. I'm open. Pass the fucking puck."
"Maybe if you were in a better position."
"I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
Coach blows the whistle, breaking it up before it escalates, but the damage is done. The rest of the practice is brutal—physical and aggressive, with Reaper taking every opportunity to hit me harder than necessary.
During the scrimmage, he cross-checks me into the boards hard. My ribs scream, my shoulder jams, and I go down hard on the ice.
The whistle doesn't blow.
Coach is watching. I know he's watching because I can see him standing there behind the bench. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't call it. Just lets it happen, the same way he's let all of it happen since day one.
I've thought about going to him. I've run the conversation in my head a hundred times, walking into his office, sitting down, laying it out calmly and professionally.Reaper is deliberately targeting me. It's affecting the team's power play. Something needs to be said.And every time I get to the end of that conversation in my head, I hit the same wall.
Coach knows. He's seen it. He watches every practice and every game, and he makes the same choice every time, which is no choice at all. Either he doesn't think it's bad enough to act on, or he doesn't think I'm worth the conflict with his captain. Both options tell me the same thing: going to him does nothing except make me look like I can't handle it.
So I get up slowly, my entire body throbbing, and skate to the bench when my shift ends.
"You good?" Liam asks quietly.
I don't answer. I can't trust my voice right now, so I just nod and focus on breathing through the pain radiating from my ribs.
By the time practice ends at six, I'm wound so tight I might snap. My ribs are bruised, my shoulder's aching, and I need an outlet for all this rage and frustration before I do something stupid like confront Reaper in the locker room.
I shower quickly, get dressed, and leave without talking to anyone.
The drive home takes twelve minutes, and I spend every second trying to calm down. Failing miserably, but trying.
I walk through the door at six thirty-four, dropping my gear bag with more force than necessary.
"Ty?" Nora's voice comes from somewhere deeper in the house. "That you?"
"Yeah."
I follow the sound to the laundry room, where I find her folding Harper's tiny clothes. The room is small, barely big enough for the washer and dryer and a person, and she's got laundry sorted into neat piles on top of the dryer.
She looks up when I appear in the doorway, and her smile fades immediately.
"What happened?"
"Practice."
"Reaper?"
"Always, Reaper." I lean against the doorframe, trying to keep my distance because I'm too keyed up right now, too angry, too everything. "Where's Harper?"
"Asleep. She went down early. She was exhausted." Nora sets down the onesie she's folding. "How bad?"
"Cross-checked me into the boards—hard. Coach watched and did nothing."