“I said no.” I skate off to the bench, ignoring the throbbing in my head.
Coach Harper is the last person I’ll ever ask for help. The man already hates me and if he finds out about my hand—about my brain damage—he’ll use it against me and take away the one thing I’m actually good at. Take away the only place where my inability to process emotions doesn't matter.
Losing hockey isnotan option.
Chapter 12
Merci
The second the final buzzer sounds, I’m out of my seat, weaving through the mass of sweaty, happy bros, all still high on their stupid testosterone-fueled victory. My palms are clammy, my throat dry, and I can’t stop replaying the hit Zach took earlier in the game. The one where he didn’t get up right away. The one where I swear his body crumpled like a rag doll.
“Merci, are you okay?” Eli’s voice is soft, careful, from behind me. He keeps his distance like he’s trailing someone who might bite his hand off if he gets too close.
Which, spoiler alert, is a distinct possibility.
“Do I look okay?” My words come out bitchier than I intend, but I don’t bother apologizing, not when my insides are twisting like someone’s trying to wring me out.
“I mean . . . no. Are you freaked out by the hits? I’m still not used to—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes so hard I might just see my own brain. “What’s not to love about watching a bunch ofgrown men slam into each other like rabid bulls on skates?”
But the fact Zach left halfway through the third period and never came back gnaws at me like a rat with a piece of stale bread. And yeah, maybe I shouldn't care. Maybe I should be glad karma's finally catching up to him.
Except Idocare.
Hell, I even want to stomp the jerk who hit him in the throat.
I shove some lingering people out of my way as I beeline for the locker rooms. While I’m probably not allowed in there, I don’t give two shits.
Once there, I push open the metal door, and the sharp scent of sweat and whatever the fuck hockey gear is made of assaults my nose. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. That honor belongs to the time I accidentally left shrimp out on the counter in my apartment for three days in the summer. The place was low rent and didn’t have air conditioning, so yeah. Nasty as fuck.
I step in farther, scanning the room for Zach as I adjust Raiyne’s jersey. It’s too big and the fabric keeps slipping off one shoulder. The whole reason I wore it was to piss off my stepbrother—and it was doing its job.
Until that hit.
Then all I wanted to do after was take it off.
Outside of a few sneers from players who take in the jersey I’m wearing, most ignore me. They’re all scattered around, some still taking off their gear, while others are in towels most likely heading to shower.
A gigantor of a man pushes past me, reeking like he needs to take about five showers, then walks out the door. Guess bathing is optional. Fucking eww.
While I can’t find my stepbrother, someone else catches my attention.
Viktor-can’t-keep-his-hands-off-my-stepbrother-Novotny.
He’s sitting on the bench, goalie mask pushed up onto his head, laughing at something one of his teammates said.
“Hey, Handsy McToucherson.” I stomp toward him, and a few of the guys glance my way, eyebrows raised. “Are you physically incapable of not touching Zach?”
Viktor’s attention snaps to me, and for a moment, he looks genuinely surprised until his lips curl into a smirk. “Just looking out for my teammate."
"Right." I cock my hip, giving him my best bitch face. "Because that requires you to be all up in his personal space every five seconds?"
"Aw, is someone jealous?”
Heat floods my cheeks even as anger coils in my gut. "As if. I'd rather fuck a cactus."
"Really?Because you look ready to commit murder.” Then he winks as he begins to strip off his chest protector. "But since you’re not interested, maybe I should take him for a spin again.”
