### Chapter 10 **LIAM** It’s been more than a day since Rachel shared the horrors inflicted upon her by those cowards, and the memory gnaws at me like acid, corroding my insides. I’m a simmering cauldron of rage, my mind racing through replayed scenes of her helpless on the floor, a target for brutal kicks, and then dragged away into a dark bedroom while the echoes of my mother’s desperate pleas for Dad to settle his wrath haunt me like an unshakeable ghost. I shouldn’t be acting like this, but every instinct to control my temper seems to be slipping away. With a grunt of determination, I surge forward on my skates, colliding hard into Jason, slamming him against the boards as I wrest home the puck from his clutches. I clear it out to Ethan just in time, but Jason retaliates with a shove that leaves annoyance boiling inside me. “It’s practice, you idiot!” I snarl, my fist instinctively clenching. If it wouldn't lead to another brawl, I might just turn around and swing at him. But the moment passes. In seconds, during a tussle for the puck with Casey, I’m sent crashing back into the boards in a payback of childish spite. It snaps my restraint. “Get lost, Jas!” I retaliate, shoving him back hard, pulling off my gloves. My intention to deliver some righteous justice is clearer than ever. Of course, Jason, ever the hot-headed jerk, sheds his gloves as well, and we’re soon spiraling into a chaotic fight on ice, our teammates rushing in to separate us. I can feel someone’s arms wrap around my chest, hauling me back just as Baxter grabs Jason, preventing another attack. “What the hell is wrong with you two?” Coach’s voice booms across the rink. “Get over here right this second!” Through gritted teeth, I glare back at Jason before trudging over to Coach, who stands seething by the exit door, his face a furious crimson that matches the hue creeping toward his balding crown. His expression is a melding of disbelief and frustration, shaking his head as I approach. I know I’m not the guy who lets his emotions run wild; I maintain my calm under pressure. Why am I turning into my father? The thought churns bile in my throat, forcing me to clamp my jaw shut as Coach blasts into me. “I expect more from you, Carlisle! What’s with the fighting? Where’s your self-control?” “Sorry, Coach.” My voice is barely a whisper as I lower my gaze to the ice. He’s right; I’m losing my grip. Jason pipes up to defend himself, bickering about how he did nothing wrong, claiming I must be on my period. The urge to punch him is overwhelming. I’ll never comprehend how someone like him could be captain over Ethan, despite his wealthy parents pouring money into the hockey program. It doesn’t excuse his jerk-like behavior. “You’re done for the day,” Coach declares sternly, punctuating his words with a finger point. “Head to the showers. Get your head straight; we’ve got a game tomorrow night, and I need my best D-man. Don’t let your team down.” With a defeated sigh, I push the door open and shuffle to the locker room. The humiliation stings; getting kicked out of practice is nothing short of a blow to my ego. Naturally, Jason gets to stay. My blood continues to simmer and bubble, and I slam my helmet onto the locker room floor as I plunk down on the bench. I bury my head in my hands, exhaling sharply as bitter memories claw at my sanity once more. I can’t escape images of Dad’s face, twisted in drunken rage, fists clenched so tightly that I feared his knuckles would burst. “Go!” Mama would holler. “Get your sisters.” Her voice shifts to Spanish, rattling off commands because Dad didn’t understand a word of it. Each time I left her to confront that monster, a part of me despised myself. The few times I didn’t do as told, I paid the price, stuck at home with bruises that wouldn’t fade. “Fuck!” I scream, my fist colliding violently with the locker behind me, the sting radiating up my knuckles like a badge of feeling. I don’t want to become a violent man. I loathe this rage pulsing through my veins like an infectious disease. I strive for calmness and control to counteract the tempest within. But the sight of Rachel—her bruised and battered torso—haunts me, conjuring up all the nightmares I wish I could forget, amplified by the fact that she suffered at the hands of someone she should have been able to trust. Violence against women and children ignites a fire in me that I can’t extinguish. I wish I were a superhero, able to leap into every abusive home and annihilate evil. Slumped back against the bench, I gaze dully into the empty locker room. The only sound threading through my turmoil is the steady drip-drip of the shower to my right. I force myself to find some semblance of peace. I can’t take this anger home; Rachel deserves better than to bear the weight of my fury. I will not follow in my father's footsteps. No matter the blood that courses through my veins, I refuse to be him. “So don’t be him, you idiot,” I mutter under my breath. “Calm down and get over this. Be the guy Rachel needs.” Bolstering my resolve, I strip off my sodden hockey gear and hurry to the showers, washing away the remnants of a grueling practice before darting out of the locker room, eager to escape before the rest of the guys flood in. A soothing jog home seems the best remedy for the turmoil inside me. By the time I turn onto the driveway, Ethan's car pulls in behind me, his worried expression suggesting he rushed through a quick shower, likely leaving his gear in disarray. I slow to a walk before entering, deliberately ignoring the concern etched into his face. Once inside, I peel off my jacket and adjust the thermostat; the air is stifling, but it’s set to the usual comfort level. Maybe my anger is just boiling over. “Shit,” I mutter, making a beeline for the kitchen in search of something cold to douse the flames. I wrench a water bottle from the fridge and gulp down half before finally meeting Ethan's gaze. He stands with crossed arms, his eyes drilling into me. “What?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow. “What? Seriously? You let Jason get to you? Of all the people, you’re the one who shouldn’t be bothered.” Ethan throws his hands wide in exasperation, slapping them against his thighs. “You’re acting like you’re about to implode. What the hell is going on?” I clench my jaw, leaning against the counter, knowing I can’t evade the questions forever. “And no, you can’t say you don’t want to talk. You look like you’re about to snap. So spill.” Ethan, undeterred, reaches into the fridge for a cold beer before gesturing toward the back patio. There’s no escaping it now—he’s determined to get me to open up. My heart sinks further as I glance back toward the stairs. Rachel’s up there. The reminder that she fled from the monster who should have cared for her sends a pang of anger through me. “Do you need your jacket?” Ethan asks as he steps outside, donning his own. “Nah.” I shake my head, my mood darkening another shade. He exhales heavily, firing up the gas heater outside before settling into the chair opposite me. “Spill.” I can’t remain silent. I anxiously tap the table, my fingers creating a restless percussion against the surface. “Dude, you’re seriously in a foul mood, and it’s unbearable. Whatever’s bugging you, just lay it out there. End this suffering, would you?” Ethan is trying to lighten the load, but I’m still a bundle of tightly wound nerves. Breathing in the crisp air, I close my eyes, forcing out a hesitant murmur. “I can’t tell you. I promised.” “Alrighty then. So it’s not about you,” he infers. The probing look he gives me is enough for me to shake my head, but I know I’m making it about my own demons. I lean back, taking a deep, prolonging breath. “Look, it’s not all about my past. I just…” I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply again. “I need to help her.” Ethan’s eyebrows lift, a sly smirk pulling at his lips. “So it’s a chick. Cool—like serious crush vibes or just a ‘she gives me butterflies’ thing?” A glare silences him momentarily, but it persists, breaking apart as he probes deeper. “Why does she need your help?” Silence stretches between us, Ethan’s smile fading into a concerned frown. He leans forward closer in his chair. “Bro, is this girl in trouble?” I can’t hide the truth anymore. The weight of it pulls at me like a chain. I give him a look that conveys everything without words, and he figures it out. “What the hell happened to her?” “Her ex-boyfriend let his friend beat her up then locked her in his room,” I grit out, my teeth clenched so tight I can feel the strain. Ethan’s expression morphs into dark fury—a burning anger I recognize and align with. “Her ex,” I clarify, needing to reaffirm my relief in her escaping him. “Do you even know this loser?” “No, but I wish I could track him down and give him a lesson he’d never forget. Him and his lousy friend.” Ethan, his own resolve firming, nods in solidarity. It’s comforting to have someone willing to share this burden of anger, reminding me that I'm not entirely alone. The image of Rachel’s bruised skin floods my mind again, the imprint left by a boot still burned in the forefront of my consciousness. I take a deep breath, anger seeping from every pore as I crush the water bottle in my grip, the plastic crumpling under the pressure—its crunch breaking the heavy spell of our conversation. Ethan looks pointedly at me. “Is he at Nolan U?” “No, the little shit lives in California.” I slam the crushed bottle down on the table, but before I can catch my breath, the sound of shattering glass reverberates from behind us. Both of us whirl around, eyes wide, as Mikayla stands in the doorway, her face pale and shocked, glass fragments raining around her feet. Did she hear everything we just said? My heart storms in my chest, dread building. Her wide eyes blink back at us, and she asks, “Did you just say… California?” I instinctively wince, my pulse racing. “How long have you been standing there?” Ignoring my question, she fires back, “Are you talking about Rachel right now?” Ethan leans forward, taken aback. “What?” With a heavy heart, I dip my chin, every ounce of my guilt pouring out in that singular gesture. “Oh my—no!” She gasps and bolts inside, ducking away before I can plead, “Mik, wait!” I chase her, dread fueling my strides as she makes for the stairs. “She doesn’t want anyone to know!” I call out, lunging for her jacket, but she dodges me effortlessly. “I’m her best friend!” Her anger flashes in her gaze, commanding even for someone so petite. Nearly flinching from her intensity, the thought of losing Rachel’s trust propels me forward. “Mik, I—” But she doesn’t stop, climbing the last steps two at a time, flying toward my room. I hear Rachel’s gasp, followed by Mikayla slamming the door closed, a hard lock clicking into place. Panic surges in me, driving me to pound on the door. “Mik! Let me in!” The stakes just got much higher, and I need to fix this—before it’s too late.