“And, Ms. Collins?”
I turn slowly, my teeth clenched, and back straight.
“One more incident… one more anything… and you’re gone.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ALEX
Fuck.
My stick barely connects with the puck, sending it scraping haphazardly across the ice. It’s a weak shot—one I’d be embarrassed of if I wasn’t still hungover from last night. It was all fun and games until we were beckoned at the ass crack of dawn.
It doesn’t help that we didn’t sleep a lick, aside for occasionally dozing off in the hospital waiting room as we waited to hear news on Jackson.
Now I see what Mountain was worried about. I’ll bet my 911 Carrera GTS that he’s about to be a major pain in my ass about it.
No one was around to see Jackson get his ass kicked, just the new girl running off. If she wasn’t guilty, then why run? I honestly wouldn’t give a shit if it wasn’t for us being three games away from nationals. Everything is riding on having all of our best players on that ice. I might not like that dickwad, but we wouldn’t be this far without him.
I glance around, taking in my team. Everyone looks just as beat up as I feel. Well, almost everyone. Mountain is making the rest of us look like degenerates.
Kane’s doing that thing where he skates circles so tight hemight carve up the ice with his rage. Something he’s been doing a lot more lately, like there’s something eating at him.
A loud clank ricochets off the ceiling as someone yanks open the doors. I turn just in time to take in the snarl stretched across Coach Barrett’s mug. Even from here I can see the vein in his temple, his anger loud and glaring.
“Circle up!” Coach roars, stopping near the tunnel and turning to face us. “Now!”
“Hundred bucks says he’s about to make us do suicides,” Luka says to another player.
He’s wrong.
We broke curfew, threw an unsanctioned party, and one of our best players ended up in the hospital. Coach is going to do a lot worse than suicides.
Mountain skates pass, bumping me along the way. A silentI told you soif I ever heard one before. Kane and I are the last to join the circle, and when we do, my eyes go straight to the person half-hiding in Coach’s shadow.
Sam.
The skimpy skirt is long gone, her thick thighs covered in denim instead. The old hoodie is way too big for her, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She doesn’t look nearly as feisty as she was last night. Instead she’s tucked behind the coach as if she wishes she could disappear, that defiance of hers now replaced with dread and something else. Fear, maybe? Regret?
Kane mutters under his breath while Mountain only watches her with an unreadable stare.
I watch as her eyes land on Kane, her breath hitching just a little. When I look at Kane, his brow is furrowed and his grip on the stick is so tight the skin of his knuckles is white as it stretchesover bone. Something about her presence catches him off guard, and I make a mental note to ask him about it later.
Coach waits until we’re all in front of him before he speaks again. “Kincaid’s done.”
The silence slams into us, and the weight of the coach’s words settle around us.
“What do you mean done?” someone asks but I don’t bother to see who.
Coach Barrett releases an aggravated sigh and scrubs a palm over his beard. It’s bad. I can tell by the hesitation in his posture and the crow’s-feet that are forming deeper around his eyes. It ages him well beyond his forty-something years.
“He won’t be returning for the rest of the season. He may not return to the ice at all.”
A protest erupts, a slew of profanities flying around. But all I can focus on is her. Sam flinches, tugging on her sleeves, fraying the already tattered hems even more.
She did this.
That’s why she’s here, right? To, what, say she’s sorry for possibly fucking up our chances at nationals?
