Trembley doesn’t miss the opportunity. He fires off a shot that gets past Viktor, the puck hitting the back of the net with a sickening thud. He skates past me as I reach down to collect my stick, his grin smug. “Thanks for staying out of my way, Knight.”
I skate right up into his face, our helmets touching. “Your own captain beat your ass on the ice last year in front of everyone. Guess it’s my turn.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. Instead, he points toward the stands. “Go ahead. At least it’s not my stepbrother wearing a Serpents jersey and shaking his ass for the crowd.”
My gaze snaps to the section he’s pointing at, and my blood runs cold.
Merci.
He’s wearing Raiyne’s jersey and shaking his ass like he’s in the middle of a goddamn music video. The crowd around him is eating it up, cheering and laughing.
A sharp, unfamiliar sensation spreads through my chest like wildfire. My nostrils flare, fingers tightening around the shaft of my stick. I skate over to the boards and smash my stick against the plexiglass hard enough to make it rattle.
Merci turns and blows me a kiss, his lips curling up in a wicked grin before he grabs Eli’s hand, pulling him up to join in, and the two of them dance together.
Connor skates up beside me, his expression somewhere between amused and horrified. “Eli’s gonna get it when Petrov finds out about this.”
Jackson joins us, laughing so hard he has to lean on his stick for support. “Knight, you look like you’re about to have a fucking heart attack. Maybe Merci’s the one who’s gonna kill you.”
I skate to the bench, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. My hands shake and my heart pounds with such force I almost want to vomit. I sit hard, gripping the edge of the bench as my gaze drifts back to Merci. His presence here is unexpected, unsettling.
Like an itch under my skin I can't scratch.
Growling under my breath, I look away and focus on the game. The next few plays only get more intense.Near center ice, Blackwell and Jackson go at it, throwing punches like it’s a heavyweight title match. Blood splatters the ice as their fists connect, but neither backs down. The crowd roars, eating up the brutality like candy.
The refs eventually pull them apart, sending both to the penalty box. Blackwell’s lip is bleeding, and Jackson’s eye is swelling shut, but they’re both grinning like dumbasses. Still don’t understand how they consider fighting foreplay.
But it’s better than them being soft with one another. They put the game first, and I respect that.
I go back out for the next shift, determined to get my head in the game again. The Serpents have control of the puck and get past Henneman, sending the puck into the corner. I chase it down, beating them there by half a second.
As I turn to clear the puck, Trembley slams into me from behind, driving me face-first into the plexiglass. The impact rattles my skull, and I drop to the ice, disoriented, my vision swimming.
The whistle blows, stopping the play, but I barely register it.
Viktor is at my side in an instant, his voice low and concerned. “You good?”
“Fine.” My voice is sharp as I try to blink away the spots in my vision.
He helps me back onto my feet, then glances over my shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” I follow his gaze and spot my stepbrother standing by the plexiglass, his face bright red as he glares daggers at Viktor.
Viktor chuckles. “Huh, whadda you know? Looks like that little shit’s jealous.”
“What?”
I lean over to grab my stick off the ice as I wait for him to respond, but I almost fall. He grabs my upper arm and helps keep me steady, the smile now gone.
“You’re not okay.”
I stand straight. “Said I’m fine.”
He skates closer. “No, you’re not. Talk to Beckett.”
“No.”
“Zach—”
