That’s enough to cause both teams to engage.
“Fuck, yeah.” Jackson launches at a player, his fist swinging over and over. Blood sprays everywhere, as for sure he broke the other player’s nose.
Of course I’m kicked out for the rest of the game. Doesn’t matter because in the end the Titans win.
Chapter 2
Alexei
I shut off the near freezing stream of water, simultaneously shaking my head to dispel droplets from my hair.
Today’s schedule is nearly identical to every other—wake at 4:30 am, eat breakfast, practice, Titans team meeting, shower, classes, strength and conditioning training, shower again, homework, then sleep.
Hopefully, the latter will be uninterrupted tonight.
Doubtful.
Not when Jackson insists on barging into our room well past midnight, most likely coming back from some pointless late-night hookup, making all kinds of racket.
And no matter how many times I’ve cursed him out this month alone to be quiet, he keeps doing it.
Next step—smother the fuckface with a pillow.
Stupid prick.
Of course, he shoots me a shark-like grin as I walk through the locker room, towel around my waist. “What’s wrong? Didn’t get enough shut eye, Sleeping Beauty?”
My lips press into a thin line as I shove him out of the way to get to my locker. “Lucky you’re my friend or I’d break your wrist, Sweetie Pie.”
He grabs my throat, eyes dark and deadly. “Watch it, Petrov.”
I step into it, grinning like a fucking Chesire Cat. We’re the same. Psychotic assholes. Jackson, however, seems to get off on the violence. Like it’s some type of foreplay.
Can’t wait until he meets his match. Going to be someone tough, hard, lethal. The type who’ll shoot him in the leg because they had a bad day and he breathed too loud. Anything else would be too boring for my friend.
Bet that’s why he goes through girls the way people go through tissues—blow into them, then toss them out.
Coach Nieminen crosses his arms and glares at the both of us. “Unless the two of you want to sit in the stands this weekend, you boys better knock it the fuck off.”
I turn and scowl at the old man.
“Don’t call me boy again.” My voice is low and full of venomous promise. Don’t care if he’s a former Stanley Cup champion, I’ll smash his face in.
He ignores me, focusing on one of our newer teammates. Coach is used to our threats and pays us no mind. I bet he’s secretly just like us. Definitely played like us when he was younger.
After grabbing my clothes, I get dressed and snatch my book bag, making sure to give Jackson the finger as I walk out of the locker room.
The motherfucker may be my friend—I use the term lightly—and my roommate, but in the end he’s just another rung to climb to the top.
Or so my father’s taught me about everyone.
Everyone serves a purpose. If they don’t, they’re useless.
Even me.
My fingers coil around the strap of my bookbag, my jaw clenching so hard, I might crack a few teeth. I’m glad the old man is an ocean and fucking continent away from me.
While the pressure of making it to the NHL drives my days, at least the suffocating blanket of his existence is a bit lighter being far from him.
