And as I step out, pulse wrecked and sanity questionable, one truth hits me with the force of a slapshot:
I am in so much trouble.
Chapter eight
Bryce
“Blackhorn, keep your head up and your ego down!” Coach Hale barks from the bench.
I pretend I don’t hear him.
Mostly because my brain is busy doing something far more dangerous than listening to coaching direction:
It’s staring at her.
Annabelle Reed stands beside the tunnel with her laptop like it’s part weapon, part shield. She’s with some of the staff and is looking very focused and composed.
And she’s wearing those earrings again.
Large gold hoops.
Satan’s jewelry.
Because the second I spot them, logic fractures.
Dex skates by, smacking my shin pad with his stick. “Quit zoning out, Romeo. Warm-up, not daydream hour.”
“Minding your own business is free,” I growl.
He grins. “Yeah, but this is more fun.”
The puck slides toward me. I receive it and shoot. The sharppingagainst the post echoes through my bones.
I stretch, roll my shoulders, and breathe, but none of it helps.
The arena hums with restlessness. Fans chant. Kids pound the glass. Flashing lights sweep over the ice.
But I’m aware of one thing.
Her.
She looks away before I fully catch her gaze, but I saw it.
She's watching.
And that stupid acknowledgment hits like a punch to the gut.
Focus, Blackhorn.
Coach whistles. “Alright, boys, the game is about to start. Remember, tight shifts now. Move the puck. Make them chase you.”
The national anthem ends. The crowd erupts.
Puck drop.
Game on.
The moment the play starts, instinct takes over. My skates dig in, cutting into the ice with speed meant to burn off whatever the hell has taken root under my skin.
