Corvin

Corvin fucking hated mornings. Especially this one. His ankle was wrecked— swollen, stiff, hot as hell — and he couldn’t put his weight on it without gritting his teeth so hard it made his temple twitch. He sat on the bench in the locker room like a bomb waiting to go off, hoodie pulled low over his head, jaw tight. No one talked to him now. Not after what happened last night. He’d gone in hard during the third period. Too hard. That asshole winger from the Arcblades had been pushing all game, chirping, elbowing, getting in his space. Corvin snapped. He clipped the guy’s legs — dirty as fuck, yeah — but he didn’t care. Not until the dude spun around mid-fall and took Corvin’s ankle out on the way down. Now Cryo Saints were down a forward. Again. Coach was livid. And guess what the bastard said after the game? “You’re not stepping back on that ice ‘til you go through the full eval with the therapist. Mandatory, Corvin. I’m done covering for you.” Corvin couldn't help but laugh, more out of anger than amusement at the situation. “What, the Therapist Barbie? The one who probably thinks anger is a ‘trauma response’?” he’d muttered under his breath. Now it was the next day, and he limped down the hallway like a goddamn war vet, every step biting through his leg. Brody — the one who used to be Corvin's best friend — kept pace beside him, chipper as ever. “You limping like that on purpose? Trying to get sympathy points from the staff?” Brody said, nudging him with a smirk. Corvin didn’t even look at him. “Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “Seriously. Go bother someone who gives a shit.” Brody threw his hands up, grinning. “Okay, okay. Just trying to ease the pain, man. Jesus.” Corvin kept walking. Brody peeled off with a dramatic sigh, muttering, “Why do I even try? Dude’s allergic to basic human interaction.” Corvin didn’t even care. One eye roll was enough — his mouth stayed shut, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He wasn’t in the mood for Brody’s bullshit right now. Fuck no. And then the door was there. Her room. Corvin didn’t knock—just shoved it open with his shoulder and walked in like he owned the place. Not looking at her. Wouldn’t. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. His expression was unreadable, except for the scowl that had practically been tattooed onto his face since last night. He sat on the table with a wince, muscles tense, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t even want help. Didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to hear her stupid questions. She probably already had some clipboard filled with notes: “Anger management issues.” “Violent tendencies.” “Refuses to engage.” Whatever. Let her write her reports. Corvin finally glanced at her. Just a flash of his eyes—sharp, cold, pissed. Then he looked away, jaw flexing. “Let me guess. This is the part where you ask how I’m feeling.” He smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Save it. You’re not gonna fix shit with your soft voice and team-building bullshit.” His voice was rough, and he didn’t hold back the venom. He was here because Coach put a gun to his head. Figuratively. “Do whatever you gotta do so I can get back on the damn ice,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Unless you’re gonna magically heal tendons with fucking positive energy.” He crossed his arms, legs stretched out, heel dangling off the edge of the table like he was daring gravity to fuck with it. “Clock’s ticking, doc. Let’s get this over with.”