Chapter 65 Clean Hit

Chapter 65 Clean Hit
The smell of burnt toast fills the small kitchen at 6:30 AM. I sit at the table, a roll of thick white athletic tape resting beside my plate. Carefully, I wind the adhesive cotton around my left wrist, pulling it tight enough to support the joint but loose enough to keep the blood flowing. The dark purple finger marks Raph left yesterday are already shifting into an ugly greenish-yellow shade at the edges.

"Since when do you tape your wrists for school?"
Leo’s voice makes me jump. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning heavily on his aluminum crutches. His hair is messy from sleep, and his gray sweatpants hang loosely on his thin frame. His eyes are fixed directly on my hands.

"I strained it yesterday during the move," I say, keeping my tone level. I tear the tape with my teeth and press the edge down against my skin. "Carrying those heavy boxes of books up the stairs. It just needs some support so I can write during my history exam."

Leo navigates the crutches across the linoleum, the rubber tips clicking against the floorboards, and sits in the chair opposite mine. He reaches out and grabs the roll of athletic tape, spinning it between his fingers.

"You didn't carry the book boxes yesterday, Maya," Leo says flatly. "Raph and I carried them. You were carrying the pillows and the kitchen towels."

I freeze for a fraction of a second, my hand hovering over my backpack. "I picked up one of the crates in the hallway when you guys weren't looking. I didn't think it was that heavy."

Leo sets the tape back down on the table. His brow furrows, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. "Raph was in the bathroom with you for twenty minutes last night with the drill running. When he came out, he had your phone in his pocket. And you wouldn't look at me for the rest of the evening."

"He was just showing me how the grab bars anchor into the wall studs," I say, pulling the sleeve of my gray cardigan down until it covers the white tape. "And my phone was on the counter because the battery died. He was just bringing it to me."

"I'm twenty one, Maya, I'm not stupid," Leo says. "I know how guys look when they're trying to mark their territory. I spent three years in locker rooms with guys like him. He acts like a saint in front of Mom, but the second she turns her back, he treats you like you're his property. Did something happen between you two in our old neighborhood before we moved?"

The question hangs heavily in the air between us. I look at my brother's pale face, at the surgical scars running down the side of his right knee. If I tell him the truth —that Raph is using his medical appointment and our apartment lease as leverage—Leo will throw his crutches aside and try to kill him. And then we will be homeless by the end of the week.

"Nothing happened, Leo," I lie, looking him straight in the eye. "He's just overprotective because he knows what happened with Jackson. He doesn't want the kids at Oakwood to look down on us. He's just trying to be a good neighbor."

Leo stares at me for few seconds. He doesn't look convinced, but the sound of a knock on our front door cuts the conversation short.

"That's him," I say, standing up quickly and slinging my backpack over my right shoulder. "We're going to miss the early bus if we don't leave now."

Leo stays at the table, his fingers tightening around the handle of his crutch until his knuckles turn white. "I'm going to ask him about that sports clinic appointment today," he calls out as I walk toward the door. "If he keeps delaying it, I'm finding my own doctor."

"Just let him handle it," I plead over my shoulder, before opening the door to find Raph standing in the dim hallway, his senior blazer perfectly pressed, waiting for me.

By 1:15 PM, the temperature inside the Oakwood Academy indoor ice rink drops the air down to freezing. The facility is the crown jewel of the school's athletic department, featuring high-end plexiglass boards, professional stadium seating, and a pristine sheet of ice that smells faintly of ozone and chilled ammonia.

For the winter term, the senior physical education block requires mandatory ice time. The girls’ and boys’ classes are combined for a three-week skating and scrimmage unit. Most of the students from the elite families own custom-molded skates and tailored gear, while the scholarship students have to use the scuffed, brown leather rentals from the equipment shed.

I sit on the low wooden bleachers near the player benches, my rental skates laced tightly to protect my ankles. Because of my 'strained wrist,' the PE instructor, Coach Felix, exempts me from the actual stick-handling drills, assigning me to manage the timer and the water bottles instead.

Out on the ice, twenty seniors circle the rink for warm-ups. Raph is among them. Because his father runs the logistics firm for the regional hockey leagues, Raph brings his own gear from his old school—a heavy black helmet and scuffed red padded pants that stand out against the white and blue jerseys of the Oakwood varsity players. He is a strong skater, his long strides cutting deep into the ice as he moves around the perimeter, matching the speed of the regular team players.

Jackson is at the center face-off circle. He is in his full varsity gear, his silver-and-gold captain's jersey contrasting sharply with Raph's dark equipment. He stands stationary, his gloved hands resting on the butt end of his stick, his eyes tracking Raph’s movements around the rink.

"Alright, clear the ice!" Coach Felix barks, blowing his silver whistle until the sound echoes off the steel rafters. "We've got twenty minutes left in the block. We're doing a full-ice, five-on-five scrimmage. Black jerseys against white. No checking along the boards—this is a gym class, not the state finals."

Raph immediately skates toward the black team bench, grabbing a penny jersey from the pile. He slides it over his pads and turns to look at the bleachers, catching my eye. He gives me a short, confident nod, then skates out to the right-wing position. He wants to prove he belongs in Jackson's world.

Jackson takes his position at center for the white team. He adjusts his helmet cage, his eyes never leaving Raph's numbers.

The coach drops the puck.

The scrimmage starts fast. The scraping roar of steel blades against ice fills the cavernous room. Raph plays aggressively, eager to prove himself.
Within the first two minutes, he uses his wide frame to crowd an Oakwood defenseman off the puck, stealing possession along the blue line and firing a hard wrist shot that catches the goalie's blocker pad.

"Nice shot, Raph!" the coach calls out from the bench.

Raph smirks, turning to skate back to his zone. As he passes Jackson, he deliberately brushes his shoulder against Jackson’s jersey, a subtle provocation that the coach misses from the sidelines. Jackson resets his stance, his expression hidden behind thesteel wires of his cage.

Five minutes later, the black team takes the puck behind their own net. Raph calls for the pass, his stick blade tapping against the ice. The defenseman flips the puck up the boards.

Raph catches the pass in stride, turning his body to protect the puck as he crosses the center line. He keeps his head down for a split second, focused on settling the spinning rubber disk against his stick. He moves at full speed, targeting the open ice in the white team's defensive zone.

He doesn't see Jackson coming.

Jackson does a perfect north-south defensive pattern, accelerating across the blue line until he meets Raph head on at the top of the right circle.

The impact is loud enough to make the students on the benches jump.

Jackson leads with his shoulder, striking Raph directly in the center of his chest just as Raph notices his presence. The force lifts Raph off his skates. His stick flies out of his hands, clattering across the ice toward the referee's crease.

Raph’s body flies backward, his spine hitting the thick plexiglass boards with a crash that makes the frame rattle. The sound of his gear slamming into the wall echoes like a gunshot through the quiet rink.

Raph drops to his knees on the ice, his helmet shifting sideways on his head. He rolls onto his side, his hands clutching his ribs as his lungs scramble to find air after having the wind knocked out of them. He gasps loudly, his chest heaving as he struggles to sit up.

"Whistle! Whistle!" the black team bench shouts.

Coach Felix blows his whistle repeatedly, skating out toward the blue line. "Thorne! I said no checking along the boards!"

Jackson stands over Raph, his skates spraying a fine layer of white ice shavings over Raph’s red padded pants as he stops. He keeps his stick planted firmly on the ice, his shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths.

"It was a clean open-ice hit, Coach," Jackson says, his voice loud enough to carry across the silent rink to where I am standing. "He crossed the line with his head down. He had possession of the puck. Contact is shoulder-to-chest. Check the tape if you want to call a penalty."

Coach Felix reaches Raph, kneeling down to check his breathing. He looks up at Jackson, his mouth set in a thin line.

"Get to the box for two minutes anyway, Thorne," the coach grumbles, waving his hand toward the penalty bench. "For roughing up a classmate."

Jackson turns his body slowly, his skates cutting a sharp arc in the ice. Before he moves toward the penalty box, he skates directly alongside where Raph is still on his knees, gasping for breath and leaning against the boards.

Jackson leans down, his helmet cage inches from Raph's ear.

"Welcome to the academy, Raph," Jackson whispers, his voice reaching me where I stand. "Keep your hands off my girl, or the next hit won't be on the ice."

Raph looks up, his face pale from the lack of air, his eyes darkening with hatred as he watches Jackson skate away toward the penalty bench.

I sit on the wooden bleachers, my hands gripping the edge of the seat so hard the white tape on my wrist begins to pull against my skin. Jackson has delivered his warning, but as I look at the expression on Raph’s face while he slowly pulls himself up using the boards, I know the cost of that hit is going to land directly on me.