Coach's eyes were like a laser, sharp and piercing, as he surveyed me from head to toe. Standing on the cold ice, I felt the chill seep deep into my bones, a sensation dwarfed only by the icy scrutiny in Coach's stare. I battled the rising panic, the cold from the ice almost a welcome distraction from my anxiety. Fleeing would be my only choice if I were chosen for the skins team. It would mean abandoning the tryouts and possibly everything I had worked for. At least, amid the pervasive cold, my nervousness seemed more like a reaction to the temperature than outright terror. In his eyes, I must have been no more significant than a fleeting shadow, easily lost among the more formidable figures surrounding me. My presence was as inconsequential as a cobweb, easily swept away and forgotten in the corners of the rink. After what felt like an eternity, his answer came in little more than a grunt. "SHIRTS!" A wave of relief washed over me, sparing me from the bare-chested team. I wouldn't

The day before my fifteenth birthday should have been filled with anticipation and excitement, but instead, it was clouded by a turbulent storm of emotions. An intense argument with my mom had erupted seemingly out of nowhere, propelling me out the door and towards Grandpa's house for refuge. The fight had escalated quickly, my emotions boiling over until I found myself shouting, my words echoing with more anger and pain than I intended.I couldn't pinpoint exactly why the fight started. The triggers always seemed trivial retrospectively. However, beneath the surface was a deeper discord, mostly revolving around my mom's disapproval of the path I had chosen for myself. She had never hidden her disdain for my ambitions in chess. In her eyes, being a chess champion was a pursuit far beneath my potential. She believed I could achieve more conventional success. Success that looked impressive in the eyes of our small community and beyond.Her constant critique that I could, and should, as

Author‘s POVAlec had just returned from an unsettling ordeal at the hockey rink, where he had found James unconscious on the ice. With Peter's help, they managed to carry James to the infirmary. The nurse had assured them James would be okay but needed to rest, promptly ushering them out to allow him some peace. Still reeling from the incident, Alec wandered aimlessly back to the dorm, stopping first in the common room. He signaled for Kris, who was engrossed in a video game with other students. With a serious expression that immediately caught Kris's attention, Alec gestured for him to follow. Once back in their room, Alec relayed the events to Kris, whose concern quickly mirrored his own. "How did it happen?" Kris asked. "I'm not sure," Alec replied. "We might have to wait until James wakes up to understand the full story." The twins sat silently for a moment, the weight of the situation settling over them. It was Kris who broke the silence, his creative mind already ticking. "

I spent the next couple of days in the infirmary, the sterile smell and the constant hum of medical equipment becoming overly familiar. The nurse, who seemed to take her role as guardian very seriously, always kept the door locked, requiring her to unlock it for anyone who wanted to visit. It felt like I was being kept in captivity, but I also somehow sensed that it was for my safety, so I didn't question it. The next day, a small brigade of familiar faces momentarily brightened the monochrome routine of my recovery. Adrien, Kris, Alec, and Nick arrived with contraband goodies the nurses would never have allowed past the door if Adrien wasn't leading the charge... I was more than a little happy to see lemon-lime soda, cookies, and other assorted treats. Nick approached me immediately, his presence always more intense than the others. He reached out, taking my chin in his hand, and turned my head to examine the ligature marks still faintly visible on my neck. A frustrated growl esca

After breakfast the following day, I felt a familiar wave of disappointment. The meal was bland and uninspiring. Simple dishes designed for those in recovery. I wasn't sure how people were supposed to regain their strength by eating this kind of food. The watery oatmeal and dry toast seemed like a punishment rather than sustenance. I was picking at a piece of toast, wondering if I could choke it down, when the door opened, and Nick walked in. He had a bag tucked under his arm, his usual silent demeanor intact. Without a word, he placed the bag on the table in front of me, giving me a quick nod before sitting down. As usual, he was a man of few words, and I was beginning to really appreciate this part of him. He wasn't overbearing like some of the other guys, and you didn't have to guess at his intentions... just pay attention to his actions. The bag smelled sweet, like sugar and vanilla. I almost attacked it, pulling out the cookies and slices of cake from last night's dinner.