Chapter 69: I’m not throwing a tantrum

The silence stretched between us, heavy and toxic. I stared at him, my grip tightening around the glass tumbler until my knuckles turned white.

His refusal to speak was like a wall, and I hated how much it was starting to get under my skin.

​"Nothing to say?" I pressured, my voice dropping an octave, coming out like a low, dangerous slice through the quiet room. "The great Reid McCoy is suddenly speechless. You were loud enough in the studio hallway when you were threatening to expose my life. Now you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me why you threw yourself into the boards like a blind rookie?"

​Reid’s chest rose and fell in a sharp, ragged line. His smoky grey eyes flicked up to mine, the darkness inside them swirling with something volatile and incredibly tight.

The absolute silence from his lips was deafening. He was actively choosing to swallow his words, forcing his jaw lock tight while his dominant frozen pine scent grew heavier, darker, and entirely more suffocating by the second.

​"Fine," I gritted out, setting the glass down on the side table with a sharp, echoing clack that broke the tension. "Keep your mouth shut. Brood like a child. But remember this, McCoy—you have exactly till next Friday to get your foot under you. If Edward Stein skates circles around our first line because you’re too busy staring into space, I’ll personally ensure Devin benches you for the rest of the season. I don’t care how much talent you have because talent with no brains in the game is useless."

​I stood up from the leather sofa, the sudden distance between us instantly letting a breath of neutral air filter back into my lungs. I reached over to the armchair, grabbing my jacket with a rough, irritated yank.

​"I’m leaving," I muttered, not looking back at him as I shoved my arms through the sleeves. "The trainer will be here in the morning with your rehab schedule. Don’t lock the door if you can’t even walk to open it."

​"Evans," his voice caught me just as my hand wrapped around the cold metal of his front door handle.

​It wasn’t a shout. It was a low, heavy rasp that barely carried across the sprawling expanse of the minimalist penthouse, but it carried enough weight to make my boots freeze against the floor.

​I paused, my back still turned to him, my jaw clenching as I waited for whatever snobbish, venomous parting shot he was about to fire at my spine.

"Wait," Reid rasped.

​The word was heavy, sounding completely stripped of its usual mocking cadence. I slowly turned my head, looking back over my shoulder across the sprawling, minimalist penthouse.

​Reid hadn’t moved an inch on the dark leather sofa. His head was still propped up against the pillows, his messy blond hair casting dark shadows over his eyes, but his smoky grey gaze was locked onto me with an intense, unyielding focus.

His jaw worked silently for a second, the muscle leaping under his skin as if he were trying to violently force down whatever words were fighting to get out.

​"I’m not throwing a tantrum," he finally muttered, his voice dropping into a low, flat rumble. He looked away for a split second, his chest rising and falling in a tight rhythm before his eyes snapped back to mine. "And I’m not going to be a liability on Friday."

​"Your ankle says otherwise, McCoy," I shot back coldly, my hand remaining firmly on the handle. "You were completely spacey out there. If you think I’m going to let you drag our entire line down because you’re hiding something—"

​"I told you, it’s nothing," Reid cut me off, his tone sharpening with a sudden, defensive heat. He gripped the edge of the leather cushion, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stay still. "It’s... I can’t say it. It’s too bitter in my mouth to even talk about."

​A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room again.

​I stared at him from across the expanse of the apartment, my mind frantically trying to process the raw, unpolished honesty in his voice.

It wasn’t an insult. It wasn’t a slick threat.

Rather, it was a genuine admission that whatever was chewing up his thoughts was something so infuriating, so deeply frustrating to his pride, that he literally couldn’t bring himself to speak it out loud.

​"But I’ll get it clear," Reid added quietly, his smoky eyes burning into mine with an absolute, terrifyingly serious intensity. The lazy brat from earlier was completely gone. "I’ll clear it out of my head before next Friday. When we step out on that ice against the Avalanche, I’ll be ready. I won’t leave any holes for Stein to break through, and I sure as hell won’t give you a single reason to bench me."

​I held his gaze for a long, breathless beat. The heavy, dark scent of frozen pine in the air seemed to settle, losing its chaotic, painful edge and shifting back into that dominant, unyielding wall of power.

​He was still an arrogant prick, and he was still keeping me on a suffocatingly tight leash—but on the ice, his word was iron. If he said he would clear his mind to crush a rival, he meant it.

"You better," I gritted out, keeping my face a perfectly flat, untouchable captain’s mask. "Because if your head isn’t in the game next Friday, McCoy, I’ll pass right over you on every single shift. I won’t hesitate to freeze you out of the play."

Without waiting for his reply, I turned the handle, stepped out into the quiet, carpeted corridor, and let the heavy door click shut behind me.

I let out a soft sigh afterwards as I shut my eyes for a second. I would wait for him to come around and then order him around on the ice.

I had no plans of seeing him until he was healed and up on his A-game. That was the plan, but the next morning, I found myself back in the quiet, carpeted hallways of the luxury downtown high-rise.

Yes, I hadn’t planned on returning, but Marcus had other plans for me. He requested I shadow the team’s head medical trainer, Jax, to get an official timeline on Reid’s recovery.

​Jax didn’t coddle players. He was a blunt, non-nonsense professional who walked into the penthouse carrying a heavy case of physical therapy gear, stim machines, and specialized oils, ready to use his solid hands to whip Reid back in shape.

​We found Reid exactly where I had left him on the dark leather sofa. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink—the anti-inflammatories had clearly worn off in the middle of the night, leaving him brooding, stubborn, and instantly annoyed the moment the door clicked open.

​"Alright, McCoy, let’s see the damage,"