Chapter 28 Snap

Chapter 28 Snap
Tate

I made my way toward the ice rink where, if I guessed right, he was having practice for his game on Monday.

My steps slowed as I reached the school’s sports stadium. It had been a long time since I’d come to this part of campus.

After watching one hockey game, I’d given up on attending matches entirely. I figured I wasn’t built to sit on a bench, screaming myself hoarse while players slammed into each other on ice.

My academics needed the attention more.

Yet here I was, clutching a small bag that held an energy drink and a towel.

The warm air hit me the moment I stepped inside.

The scent of ice and sweat filled the air. Skates scraped loudly against the rink, sticks clashed, and the voices of both players and spectators filled the air..

It wasn’t hard to find Kade.

Even among a dozen players moving at impossible speed, he stood out.

He moved across the ice smoothly, knees bent slightly, body leaning forward as he gained momentum. His jersey clung to his back, shoulders broad beneath the padding.

Students filled the benches despite it being only practice, cheering whenever someone made a clean pass or turn.

I stood still, watching as Kade positioned himself near the blue line, bracing his stick low against the ice.

A teammate sent the puck flying toward him.

The black disc skimmed smoothly across the surface, spinning fast.

Kade shifted, ready to receive it—

—but another player intercepted and shot it straight toward the goal.

The crack of the stick bounced off the glass.

Kade straightened immediately, his frustration was pretty obvious even through the helmet. He pulled it off, dragging a hand through his damp hair that fell over his eyes.

His shoulders tightened.

He skated toward the plexiglass, stopping abruptly as his eyes met mine.

Just for a second.

Then he looked away, his jaw tight before he turned back to his teammates.

“Take five, everyone,” he yelled.

He pushed through the exit gate and stepped off the ice.

I moved closer, waiting as he approached the benches.

He dropped onto one empty one, elbows resting on his knees as he exhaled, running his fingers through his hair again.

I licked my lips, suddenly aware of people glancing in our direction.

“Nice game,” I said, handing him the bag.

He looked up at me. Somehow, his eyes looked brighter, maybe as a result of the lights in the stadium.

“You can mock me directly,” he muttered, taking the bag.

I sighed and sat a few inches away from him.

Not too close. I couldn’t risk attracting attention— something I despised.

“A thank you would be enough,” I said, taking another look around.

He opened the drink and took long gulps. My eyes followed the movement of his throat before I forced myself to look away.

“That’s not a compliment,” he replied flatly.

I pressed my lips together.

He just preferred to be unnecessarily difficult.

At this point, I was convinced it was a personality trait.

He wiped his face with the towel, draped it over his shoulder, and lowered his head. I studied him carefully.

His muscles still seemed tight and even so, his expression was a little sour. How long had he been preparing for this game? There was no way one missed shot caused this level of frustration.

“You don’t look fine.” I mumbled.

A muscle ticked in his jaw and he remained silent.

I cocked my head to the side.

When it became clear he wasn’t going to respond, I sighed.

“My sister was never sick,” I said quietly, turning my attention to the players still skating on the rink.

I felt his gaze shift to me, but I ignored it.

I stared at my fingers instead, as though they were the most fascinating thing in existence.

“It was a lie,” I continued. “I was duped.”

A dry laugh escaped me as I finally glanced at him. Talking about it still made me feel a faint sting of disappointment, hurt even.

And now, I was told Julie was missing. I shook my head to stop myself from thinking about it.

His eyes were fixed on me — intense enough to send warmth crawling down my spine and stir a funny feeling in my stomach.

“By my parents,” I added softly.

Another muscle twitched in his jaw before he looked back toward the rink.

“So you see,” I said, forcing my expression to be neutral, “your problem might not be as bad as you think.”

He turned to me and I offered a small smile, one which he didn’t return. Somehow, he even looked more annoyed.

Well… that clearly hadn’t helped.

He grabbed the drink again, finishing it in one go before tossing the empty can aside and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Okay.

Annoyed was an understatement.

He looked…angry.

He picked up his stick and stood. I intertwined my fingers together, watching him, wondering what exactly I’d said wrong.

He turned around to meet my gaze.

“It's as bad. Pretty worse than your pathetic little story.” He bit out and then he was…gone. I blinked, stunned.

Wait… what?

I watched as he returned to the rink, barking at his teammates to resume practice.

A few lingering eyes remained on me. I could feel the curiosity and judgment — especially from the girls watching nearby.

Though his words stung, I kept observing him. Something was just not right about him.

It had never been right, but it was a little worst today.

I watched his aggressive pushes across the rink, how hard he swung his stick and his barely controlled frustration whenever the puck slipped away.

I sighed. Wow.

The Sinclairs were focused on the wrong son.

Or maybe only one son.

Because while their younger child struggled to understand his emotions…their older son was drowning in his own.

The signs were pretty obvious and while I hadn’t noticed them before, I could see it as clear as day now.

He was hurting and messed up.

And somehow, I had walked straight into the middle of it.

Fantastic.