I release a split second too late, and a Bears defenseman slams it back up the ice.
The jeers match the screams of excitement from the Bears fans, and I stop short near the goal line, pivoting hard, glad Faust is off the ice or I might hit him myself.
My back is to Neve now which helps me focus, but only just.
The fact she threw me off is sickening. Nothing bothers me this much.
If we lose this game because of some girl I’m infatuated with, that’s an embarrassment I can’t handle.
I don’t have time to think about it when the Bears left D man skates right into my path, my forward momentum sending us crashing into the fucking boards.
I drop my stick and slam my gloved fist into his chest, the scent of sweat filling my nose, and it’s not just my own.
Smacks against the plexiglass thump behind me, frantic and angry, but I don’t give a fuck. The Bear—Rodger—tries to skate off, but I grab his jersey and haul him back.
You’re not going any-fucking-where.
This time, he releases his stick too, and his eyes lock onto mine as I hit him again, then he throws himself fully at me, like he can collapse me with his bodyweight.
Not a chance.
I rip his helmet off, my spine to the boards, then I’m raining blows on his head, his brown hair a mess of sweat and heat.
The crowd is losing it and so am I.
Players from both sides pile up around us, some helping me, some hurting. I feel blows along my core, my ribs, but a strong grip jerks me away from the madness and when I look up, angry I have to stop, it’s Faust’s dark eyes that mine are locked onto.
THIRTY
NEVE
Slyth Lounge is packed, full of mostly hockey fans and drunk college students, basically one and the same tonight. Just a five-minute walk from East York, we knew it would be like this.
But it doesn’t change the fact I’m enjoying it, rum and Diet in my hand, only water in my belly.
Not a good combination, but I feelamazing.
“You’resureabout Ace, Neve?” Tasia whines, her dark hair braided back, coat left at the door alongside mine, showing off the red crop she’s wearing and low-cut jeans as we sit around a table near the back of the bar.
“Tas.” I take another drink, tossing my hair over one shoulder, my Faust jersey—the one he left me with Casper who winked at me, and told me there were no cameras—alongside my coat at coat check, the green, strappy bodysuit I’m wearing diving into leather pants, my heels giving me an extra three inches when I stand.
The rum burns down my throat as Tas’s eyes find mine, hers wide, a vodka soda clutched in one manicured hand.
“I don’t give afuck.”The last word slurs a little and Cynthia, on my left, giggles, nearly snorting out her vodka cran.
Tasia tosses her head back and laughs too, white teeth flashing, and with the bass pounding through the room and the liquor in my veins, this is the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.
I have to admit, seeing Sylvan Connor try and beat the shit out of a guy who put him up against the boards was attractive. Not so good the Dragons lost in a shootout, not so great Sylvan got a five-minute penalty for fighting, but overall, sexy as hell.
I feel myself start to sweat but after coming in from the cold, I don’t mind.
The fireplace just past Cynthia and Karter—deep in conversation now—is warm, I know I look hot, and we’re getting an Uber back. Being off campus, away from the deaths, it makes me feel less paranoid.
But when a quick hush falls over the lounge and I lift my eyes up toward the side entrance—alongside everyone else—my stomach twists into knots.
The boys walk in, freshly showered, changed, and looking more angry than defeated.
Leading the way is Ryles, but just after him?
