“That wasn’t a complaint. More a justification for how much of your conversation we overheard,” she explains. “Men like Dyers never know when to stop. Until it’s too late.”
Shay’s mouth turns into a sneer. “He’sthe pig, Denver.”
Zach grunts. “This is neat and all, but how are we going to make the fucker pay?”
“Your friends are right. You’re far too pretty for federal lockup,” Victoria says smoothly. “Plus, you don’t want him to suffer worse than the people he’s hurt. If anything, it would be far more fun ifhewere the one wearing federal lockup orange with all those hopes of playing in the NHL burned and faded just like his whole life, no?”
Zach sniffs. “Okay, that does sound good.” When I squeeze his fingers, he continues, “No one touches you. No one.”
Those words,growled, oooh, holy fajitas and the lords of Taco Tuesday.
Victoria catches my eye and a hand, complete with a whopper of an engagement ring, fans in front of her face.
This isn’t the time for a surge in hormones, but that she gets it, too, has me sharing a goofy smile with her.
All this is unbeknownst to Zach, of course, who’s deep in discussion with Shay and Callan.
The group’s support doesn’t make it any easier to head out of the library five minutes later.
It feels as if everyone’s looking at me.
In fact, no, it doesn’t feel like it. Everyoneislooking at me. Most are snickering. Some are gleeful. Others pull faces as if they feel my mortification and are sorry for it/grateful they’re not the ones being targeted.
But with Zach at my side, Callan, Wynter, Victoria, and Shay too—hell, even Pecan and Hailey show up, running toward us as we breach the entrance—and Lex joining us as well, I realize that from this mess, there’s something sweet to be uncovered…
I’ve found my people.
THIRTY-FIVE
WATERBOARDING IS ILLEGAL, RIGHT?
The urgeto (water)board my own teammate isn’t a new one—I’m best friends with Pecan who routinely pisses me the fuck off.
But this is different.
Dyers’s a conceited, sanctimonious jackhole who deserves my skate being shoved up his ass.
Whenever he skates near me, he oinks.
The fuckeroinks.
And it messes with my game. Totally screws with my head.
If the NCAA allowed fighting, I’d be on his ass like he played for the other team, but I keep it together.
I’m already intending on tanking the game. I don’t need to add ‘anger issues’ to the list of negatives a scout could attribute to me.
Resenting the full-face grill as perspiration makes my eyes sting, I watch Alec take the face-off after the puck falls out of bounds.
Somehow, the fumbler wins.
When he shoots the puck my way, I let it drift to Mason and retreat, circling back toward Pecan as I monitor the ice.
Mason loses possession and the Cougar shadowing him scoops it up with a puzzled frown because a Mite could have retained the puck with that level of sloppy stick management—the Cougars are bottom of the frickin’ league and they’re playing better than we are.
Alec pushes me when I fail to intercept, roaring, “Get your head in the game, man,” and I heave my ass down to our O-zone.
I need a balance—I have to show up enough for Coach not to bench me while derailing the game from the ice.
