He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes searching mine like he's trying to read something written there. Finally, he lets go of my wrist.
"Nothing," he says, but his voice says it's definitely not nothing. "Let's go feed the monsters before they start eating the furniture."
We walk inside together, but everything in me is conflicted. It’s not nothing; it’s not even the first time this has happened. I don’t know why he won’t tell me, but it’s like he physically can’t. Like some spell has been cast on him where he can’t just open up his mouth and tell me what’s going on. He’s allowed to have secrets even though I don’t. I tell him everything because he’s my person, but I’m gonna get what’s bothering him out of him sooner or later.
Chapter 5
Ramsey
The second the announcer calls my name over the speakers, the entire arena erupts.
"Number ninety-one, Raaaaaamseyyyy 'Ghoooost' Blackwooooood!"
I roll my eyes beneath my helmet as I skate onto the ice. The nickname still feels like bullshit. Now it's plastered all over campus merch with my number—shirts, foam fingers, even those stupid fucking rally towels they're waving in the stands.
I do a quick circle around our side of the rink, tapping my stick against the ice. The St. James players are already lined up on their blue line.
My eyes scan the stands automatically, finding her exactly where she should be—three rows up, just behind our bench. Reese is wearing my away jersey, the white fabric swimming on her small frame, my name and numberstretched across her back. Her dark hair is pulled up in a half-up ponytail with a green and silver ribbon tied around it. She's leaning forward in her seat, already on the edge of her seat before the game's even started.
Iris and Oakley, my other two cousins’ wives are on either side of her—Iris with her face buried in her phone and Oakley bouncing in her seat like she's mainlined three Red Bulls. But it's the commotion a few seats down that catches my attention.
Reagan is standing, a bucket of popcorn clutched in one hand while she gestures wildly with the other. Her face is flushed with anger as she leans into some frat-looking motherfucker who's clearly said something to piss her off. I watch as her free hand drifts toward her back pocket—where I know for a fucking fact she keeps a switchblade. Penn's either not with her or he's grabbing drinks, because there's no way this asshole would still be conscious if my cousin was present.
Without hesitating, I skate over to the glass and smack it hard with my stick. The sound cracks through the air, drawing everyone's attention. Reagan glances over, those eyes so similar to Reese's narrowing when she sees me. She rolls her eyes dramatically, but her hand moves away from her pocket.
The frat boy looks like he's about to shit himself as I lean in close to the glass.
"Keep your fucking hands off my cousin, or I'll cut it off with my skate. Ya understand me?" I say, my voice carrying through the small gaps in the plexiglass.
The guy's face goes white. He nods frantically, alreadybacking away toward the aisle. Smart move. Reagan flips me off, but there's a smirk of gratitude appearing as her hand goes to her belly while she continues walking back to the other girls.
Looking back at Reese, I nod my head once at her before skating back away from the boards.
The puck drops, and it's fucking chaos from the second my stick touches it. I slap it back to Archer, who darts past their center like the guy's standing still. St. James has always played dirty, but tonight they're out for blood, especially that prick Thompson who slammed Copeland into the boards last season and took him out for three games.
I keep my eye on Thompson as I position myself for the offensive play. There's a roaring in my ears that drowns out everything except the scrape of blades on ice and the hollow thwack of sticks hitting the puck. This is where I belong—where I can let the darkness out in small streams. Without scaring her. Well, it's one of the few places I can let out some of the darkness.
"Ghost, open!" Archer yells, and I dart between two defensemen, my stick ready as he sends the puck sailing toward me.
I catch it clean, feeling the satisfying flick of weight against my blade before I fire it toward the net. The goalie blocks it, but barely; the rebound bounces right to Copeland who slams it home.
The crowd erupts as the goal horn blares. I feel a hedonistic grin split my face as Cope skates over, crashing into me with a body check that would level a normal person.
"Fucking beautiful setup," he shouts over the noise.
My eyes find Reese in the stands. She's on her feet, screaming, her face lit up with a joy so pure it makes my chest ache. This is why I keep her at arm's length—she's too fucking good, too innocent for the shit that lives inside me.
The game speeds up after that. St. James is pissed about the early goal, and they're not even pretending to play clean anymore. I take an elbow to the ribs that knocks the wind out of me, but the ref conveniently looks the other way.
"You good?" Davis asks as we line up for the face-off.
I spit blood onto the ice. "Just fucking dandy."
The second period is even worse. Thompson is shadowing me like a fucking stalker, whispering shit every time he gets close enough.
"That your girlfriend in your jersey?" he says during a scrum along the boards. "Maybe I'll show her what a real hockey player feels like after we're done here."
I dig my elbow deeper into his gut, making him grunt. "Everyone know you’re suicidal? You just signed your death certificate. Keep your fucking eyes open, Thompson. That little comment just lost you your fucking life. Don’t fuck with a Blackwood, bitch."
