before falling

chapter one

asher

There's a specific kind of silence that fills an ice rink before practice starts.

Not peaceful. More like a warning. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting to see if you'll crack under the weight of everything you're pretending not to feel.

I thrive in that silence.

The chill of the rink seeps into my bones as I skate lazy laps around the ice. My teammates are filing in behind me, loud as always, but I tune them out.

I'm here to work. Be the best.

To drown out the noise in my head with the scrape of my blades and the rhythm of drills.

Fuck I love hockey.

"Brooks!" Ronan shouts, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Quit skating in circles and help set up."

I shoot him a look over my shoulder but skate toward the bench anyway.

"Relax," I say, grabbing a handful of pucks and tossing them onto the ice. They scatter, clinking against each other like marbles. "You've got enough energy for both of us."

Ronan smirks but doesn't reply, and the team slowly starts to get their shit together.

Stretching.

Shooting.

Chirping each other about missed passes or bad plays from yesterday.

"Big game Friday," Beckett Daniels says as he glides by, snapping a puck off the boards. "Hope you're ready to carry us again, Cap."

"Carry you?" I shoot back, catching the rebound with my stick and firing it into the net. "What else is new?"

The guys laugh, but I don't join in. Banter is part of the game, part of the team, but my head isn't in it today. It hasn't been all week.

I think they know.

"Ay, Brooks," Tyler, one of the freshmen, calls out. "What's up with you, man? You've been quiet lately. Everything good?"

The question feels loaded, even though he's just trying to be friendly.

I force a shrug. "Same as always."

Tyler doesn't press, but Ronan catches my eye, his expression unreadable. He's one of the few people on this team who's been around long enough to know the truth—or at least pieces of it. He's my best friend.

I've been clean for three years, but it doesn't matter. The past sticks to you like tar, no matter how hard you scrape. And I'm trying so hard.

Rehab was a bitch. I'm never going back.

~~~

After practice, I linger in the locker room longer than I need to. Most of the guys have already left, laughing and shoving each other as they head to class or back to the dorms. The place smells like sweat and rubber, and the silence here isn't the good kind.

"Brooks."

I glance up to see Miles Harper leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. He's one of the rookies, barely here for two months, but he's already got this air about him.

Like he knows things he shouldn't.

It fucking pisses me off.

"What do you want?" I ask, pulling my hoodie over my head.

"Nothing, it's just...I don't think Coach would like how hardcore you go at our victory parties."

"Have you met him?" I ask, because Coach gets so fucking drunk at parties, has a hang over most of the time. It makes it fun to mess with the dude.