บททั้งหมดของ Cold Friction: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The skate to the bench felt like a death march. The rest of the Falcons had stopped dead in their tracks, watching their captain and their newest star player self-destruct in real time. The scoreboard suspended above center ice glared down in unforgiving crimson: *Home 0, Away 4.* We had just been systematically dismantled by our own B-squad, entirely because I refused to pass to my right wing, and my right wing had spent the last forty minutes playing sadistic, hero-ball hockey just to watch me fracture. I hit the bench door, my skates biting harshly into the rubber matting. Kael slid in right behind me, his broad shoulder deliberately brushing mine, flooding my airspace with the heavy, inescapable scent of wintergreen and sweat. Coach Miller was pacing the length of the bench, his face flushed a deep, mottled purple. For a long, agonizing moment, he didn't say a word. He just stared at us, his jaw ticking with a rage so absolute it made the surrounding air feel thin. "Sit," Mill

"You look like you're plotting a murder, Captain." The low, gravelly drawl sent a spike of adrenaline straight into my veins. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. "Go back inside, Sterling," I said, my voice flat, controlled, stripped of anything unnecessary. "Your audience is waiting." Behind me, I heard the soft click of the door shutting. Then his footsteps. Unhurried. Certain. Kael didn’t stop until he was right beside me, close enough that I could feel him before I fully registered him. "They're Dad's audience," he said, resting his forearms against the railing like he belonged there. "Not mine." "Could have fooled me," I muttered, finally glancing at him. "You play the obedient, golden boy flawlessly. It’s almost impressive how easily you lie." A dark, breathy laugh slipped out of him, low and rough. "It’s called survival, Julian. You should know all about that. His gaze dragged over me, slow, deliberate."You’re out here in a suit that costs mor

"Enjoy the show, captain?" he whispered, his voice a jagged, bleeding blade. He didn't wait for an answer. He shoved past me, his shoulder deliberately and violently clipping mine as he stalked off into the darkness of the corridor. I stood alone in the silence. My hands were trembling. I had always wanted to find Kael Sterling's weakness. I had wanted to see the arrogant star player break. But standing there in the shadows, the victory tasted entirely like ash. I dragged myself back to my room, stripping off the suffocating tailored suit Richard had bought me, and changing into a pair of worn grey sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. But shedding the clothes hadn’t shed the weight of the night. I could still hear the echo of Richard’s voice in that study. *Scouts look for consistency, not volatility. Look at Julian.* He had used me as a weapon to dismantle his own son. He had taken Kael’s volatile, explosive brilliance and threatened to crush it under the heel of his influe

KAEL The bass from the locker room speakers thumped through me, a heavy, obnoxious thud that synced perfectly with the chaotic high of the team. The Falcons were losing their minds, shouting over each other, high-fiving, and tearing off their gear with the frantic energy of a squad that had just dodged a bullet. We had won. I had scored the game-winner. But the only thing roaring in my blood was the memory of the play that got us there. From my stall, I watched him. Julian sat in the far corner, a solitary island of ice in a sea of celebrating bodies. He was methodically unlacing his skates, his jaw clenched so tight I was surprised his teeth hadn’t shattered. He wasn’t celebrating. He was analyzing, dissecting, and punishing himself for what he had done on that ice. He had passed me the puck. Beneath the blinding stadium lights, with the clock bleeding out and the scouts watching his every move, the perfect, robotic captain had choked down his massive pride and yielded to me. A

KAELThe bass from the sound system was vibrating through the entire estate and rattling the imported crystal in my father’s absurdly ostentatious chandelier. My father and Sarah had left for a weekend getaway in Aspen, taking their suffocating, newlywed bliss with them. The moment the tires of his town car had crunched down the gravel driveway, the estate had settled into a sterile, breathless silence. It was the kind of silence my father demanded. The kind of silence Julian thrived in. I gave it exactly four hours before I decided to burn it down. I leaned against the marble island in the sprawling kitchen, a red plastic cup halfway to my mouth, watching the chaos unfold. Half the campus had shown up, flooding the pristine, minimalist hallways with the stench of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. A makeshift beer pong table had been set up over Richard’s custom mahogany dining table. Someone was currently spilling vodka onto a Persian rug that cost more than a luxury sedan. I