𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 | bl thriller

𝑰𝑰 | ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ

Charbonneau stared at the thick fog and tree branches that cut through it. The train lulled him to sleep with the quiet sound of the trails, the wind, and Gardner breathing heavily by his side. Dead asleep to the world. He didn't need to look at his friend's face to realize how tired he was — at this point, it was an image entrenched in his head. Insomnia. Anxiety. Anger. He didn't dare to move.

It was autmn in Switzerland. Leaves were falling, the weather got considerably colder, nights got longer, and the sky darkened each passing day. Lugano seemed to be different from Fribourg, Charbonneau didn't know much about it. They were in the mountains, their campus was tucked somewhere between Monte Parma and the city of Pontecorvo. The place was exquisite. A cinematic beauty that came out of conceptual european movies about life and lore.

The season had ended tragically with Coach Björgensson's death, but even worse was the fact that the police didn't find any clues. Nothing. In fact, the only thing they found about the situation was that their coach was part of an illegal betting ring. The Genebra Lions manager told the players to let the Crusaders win the match. No wonder why Desjardins was so angry at him. They never got along, and if fate ever decided to switch places, he probably would to the same.

Truth be told, if Johann instructed them to hand the match in a silver platter, he'd punch Desjardins in the face as well. The team manager was unbearable when it came to PR. In the end, Coach Björgensson and the Lion's management had sold their game as if it didn't mean a thing. Now look at the mess they made. Strässler got left behind to pick up the pieces and most of the team transferred to different schools.

It was unbearable to enter that locker room without remembering the last match. The team got dissolved and everybody tried to carry on, while police kept the investigation going. Charbonneau wanted nothing to do with that. They'd already gone through too much trauma already.

— No, coach, it's all good. — Gardner muttered in his sleep, head falling over Charbonneau's shoulder. He adjusted his friend's head to a more comfortable position.

Gardner took the news harder than anyone else. He was with Strässel when they found the body. Horrible incident, the murder weapon was definitely a skating blade. It was a pitiful scene, really. Watching a big English bloke like James Gardner wake up drenched in sweat and tears like that. Broke his heart. Several times in a roll.

The cabin was big enough for two hockey players and their equipment, but only because they had sent their baggage earlier. Charbonneau still had his Crusaders goalie glove with him, even though it wouldn't be useful anymore. The glove was still stained with his blood from Desjardins' punch.

Gardner woke up half an hour and two bottles of water later. Which, to be honest, was a great timing, because Charbonneau was in dire need to pee. When Charbonneau left the cabin, his friend was still dizzy and opted to keep it to himself — Gardner opting to keep it to himself was the new normal, so that was nothing new.

Turning right, the blue carpet lead Charbonneau to a small corridor filled with more cabins and food machines. On the other side, three boys stood between him and the bathroom stall. They all wore night outfits, and considering that it was six in the morning, Charbonneau knew they were coming back from a night out.

If you were outside of the circle of tales and defamations of college hockey, you wouldn't think twice. You would think something like: "well, this college is in the end of the world, but at least they have a night life". Right? Well, if you were a college hockey addict, you would know who those three were.

They're called The Devil's Axe, because that's the last thing you see before you die. Starting line for the Lugano Devils, exactly where himself and Gardner were heading towards. It seemed like Charbonneau and Gardner had a welcome committee. A real fucking handful one.

— Well, if it's not Bernardo Charbonneau? Charbo, captain of the former Fribourg Crusaders, 24, goalie. Welcome home. — A tall boy with long greeted him with a wicked smile, narrowing his brown eyes with a malicious glint.

Adrien Arsenault, a Quebec native, held the attacking line like the devil mess with his prey before sending them to hell. Slowy poking with his horns. Waiting to see the blood drip. Watching your weakest side. He threw around jokes to mess with your patience and waited for you to make a mistake. He was a right winger from the deepest trenches of the last cicle of Dante's Inferno. His hockey nickname was Arsy, part because he was also a goddamn asshole.

— You're very infamous for this parts, I'd take care if I were you. — Essy warned him with a quiet voice. His expression was indiferent and Bernardo Charbonneau would never make the mistake of taking it as kindness.

Elias el-Sayed — or Essy because god forbid that hockey players say somebody's full name — was the quiet type. The ones who listen more than they talk, and you almost think they're nice. Almost. He was a left winger from Hanover, Germany, grew up with a former pro hockey player as a father. The fastest skater from the Lugano Devils, a sight that extended for miles and a great aim. Hit you like a brick. Although his game was pretty clean, his father taught him the cheapest tricks on the book, and never hesitated to pull them off if necessary.

Then, the last member of The Devil's Axe, interrupted them. Xavier Batista, center, leader of the triumvirate blessed by Moloch himself. His hockey nickname was Xavo, and he was one of Bernardo's favorite players on the league, because he was mexican. Although his surname was french, Charbonneau, he was very much brazilian, and having another latino player close to him was a fortunate thing. Even if this player was Xavo. He had astounding comunication skills and a fantastic stamina, lifting the team's spirits when they needed the most. Although he wasn't the Devil's captain, he held the badge of Alternate Captain, which meant that he still had the responsibility to maintain peace between players.

Xavo inserted himself between Arsy and Essy, effortlessly, and stepped forward to extend a hand so Charbo could shake.

— I apologize about those two dicks, this was out of order. Our condolences for your loss, Charbonneau, I can't imagine how hard this must be. — The mexican sounded sincere, and as far as Charbonneau knew, he was the most rational between the trio.

— Don't worry, if anything, I can murder the next guy with my skating blades. — Charbonneau retorted to Arsy and Essy, bearing a cold expression. He turned to Xavo and shook his hand, nodding up. — Thank you.

— Xavo, I like him. Can we keep him as a pet? — Arsy pleaded to Xavo, receiving a condescending laugh from Essy.

— Shut the fuck up, I'll fucking drown you in this toilet. — Xavo rose his eyebrows and exhibit a fake smile, putting his hands on his both of his friends necks and pushing them outside the path. — Come on, you two. Charbonneau, I'm sorry, we'll see each other in practice.

Charbonneau let out a relieved sigh when they left, making his way to the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

— Welcome home, Charbo. — He repeated to himself, watching his fading black eye in the mirror.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hey guys, I hope you liked this chapter! If there's anything you didn't quite understand or got confused with, please comment! I'll do my best to explain better, not to mention that it's incredibly useful during the editing phase. 

Please, if you're enjoying the book so far, don't forget to like and comment <3