As if our endless feud is written in the stars or some shit.
Then, last week, the prick ran his mouth after the horn, bringing up the draft, reminding me of how far I fell. It was a low blow. One that I couldn't let slide.
I waited, took my time until after we got out of the locker room, then it was an all-out brawl. Fucking blood was everywhere.
The look on his face when my fist connected with his jaw, the shock and pain and anger, it was almost worth the ache in my wrist.
Almost.
A roll of clear tape hits me square in the forehead, jolting me out of my thoughts. Alexei snickers, his eyes glinting. “You fantasizing about slitting his throat again?”
I snort. “More like curb-stomping the piece of shit with my skate.”
Walsh’s nose scrunches. “Why would you wanna wreck your equipment on such a flea?”
Coach Nieminen's whistle blares through the locker room, the shrill sound cutting through the chatter and laughter. “You pricks ready for practice, or should I leave you behind?”
We all know it's an empty threat. Coach needs us, needs our skill and our talent and our drive. But that doesn't mean we're willing to push him. He has other ways of making our lives miserable, ways that don't involve benching us.
Plus, I kinda like him. I can see myself being a coach like him one day.
He turns to Alexei. “You get the information for your boyfriend?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Assistant Coach Buckland’s lip curls up. Bastard always has a problem with us. Not sure why my father recommended him for the job. He’s such a clown. But there’s something about him, something that even unsettles Knight. And when the resident psychopath is bothered, there’s a problem.
Not to mention his steely focus on me.
For the past two years, the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. But there’s nothing I can do about it because outside of the stares, he’s never done anything, never said anything not hockey-related to me.
I grab my helmet and stick, then head out of the locker room, the chill of the rink hitting me like a physical blow. I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, savoring the burn.
This is where I belong. On the ice, stick in hand, ready to do battle, ready to prove to everyone that I'm the best, that I deserve to be here, that I'm not just some late-round draft pick with something to prove.
I take a slow lap around the rink, letting my muscles warm up, letting the familiar rhythm of my skates against the ice soothe my nerves as I head over to the bench where Coach Buckland waits to run us through our first drill.
“Line it up!” he calls, his voice echoing through the empty arena.
I take my place at the front of the line, my heart pounding in my chest, my blood singing with anticipation. And when the whistle blows, I explode forward, my stick flashing as I corral the puck, my skates carving through the ice like claws.
“Not so fast,” Walsh growls.
“Scared you can't keep up?”
While the five of us may be friends, it doesn’t mean we won’t fuck each other up. And we have at one point or another. It’s how we know Knight’s the most dangerous. He feels nothing.
Walsh is right on my tail, his breath hot on the back of my neck, his stick jabbing at my side. But I'm faster, stronger, better. With a twist of my wrist, I send the puck sailing into the net, the satisfying swish of the mesh music to my ears.
I turn, spreading my arms wide, soaking up the cheers and whoops from the rookies. They don't matter, but it riles Walsh up, so why not use it to my advantage.
He skates up beside me. “Cute trick.”
The next round, I let Knight take the puck first, content to track him from behind. He's smooth, calculated, every move precise and deliberate. But he's too calculating, too predictable. And that's his weakness.
Right before the goal, I swing wide and clip the puck away, sending it through the targets quick as lightning.
Knight rounds on me, shoulders squared, his eyes cold and hard. “Blackwell still got your panties in a bunch?”
