He might think that, but there are times when I lie awake and think that really is the answer. Avery needs me. The Bolts…they may be my team, and they mean a lot to me, but they aren’t her. They don’t need me in the way my four-year-old does.
“JJ.” Brayden studies me, his expression searching, weighted this time.
“I know. She’ll be fine.” I shake off the thoughts. Now is not the time to ponder my life choices.
When we step out onto the ice, Dirk and Jarred Kane are already running drills. Addie has them coming an hour earlier than us. They need the extra training, and this shows that the Bolts are serious about the rookies and potential players, even if my spot on the team is secure and those guys will not see a day on the ice during regular season.Not this year.
“You’re not moving with the puck,” Addie yells as she pulls back her hockey stick and aims another shot at Dirk in the goal.
He grabs the puck before it goes into the net. She sent it sailing toward him slowly, giving him a chance to correct his technique, so the catch isn’t much of a flex.
“Okay, Coach.” His tone is mocking, full of disdain. “Why don’t you show me?” Between one breath and another, he lifts the puck with his stick and whips it back at Addie.
In what feels like slow motion, she lifts her hand just like she would if she were geared up.
But she’s not.
She’s wearing regular gloves. The kind meant to protect her hands from the cold and nothing else.
She should dive out of the way. Or duck. But she does the thing we’re all trained to do. It’s in our blood. When the puck is coming at us, we block it. So she shifts her body and catches the goddamn biscuit in her hand. The second it makes contact, she lets out an ear-piercing scream that echoes off the walls of the cavernous space.
And in response, I don’t see sense. I don’t see reason. I just seered.
I toss my helmet at Brayden without giving him a heads-up. I’d never treat my gear like that if I wasn’t so goddamn fucking angry, but right now, my only goal is to hurt this asshole the way he hurt Addie.
“What in the fuck is wrong with you?” I rush toward Dirk and slam the piece of shit into the net.
He doesn’t expect it, so he goes down quickly. But I pull him right back to his feet, throwing my fist at his face. I make contact with his cheek and am rewarded with the satisfying crunch of his bones cracking.
“JJ, what the fuck?” Adeline shouts as I’m tugged away from the asshole I’d like to murder with my bare hands.
“He’s not worth it.” Brayden yanks on my practice jersey, jostling me.
A guy I don’t recognize—a rookie, maybe—nearby grabs Dirk before he can fall backward onto the ice.
Fucker would have deserved that too.
Panting and out of breath, I can’t control this anger simmering inside me. “Did you see what he fucking did?” I yell.
Brayden’s still at my side. Like always. “Yeah, I did. But you gotta calm down.”
“Jesus Christ,” Adeline mutters.
At the sound of her voice, I whip around and zero in on her.
She’s a couple feet away, and one of the team trainers is inspecting her hand. Each time he pokes or prods, she winces and squeezes her eyes shut.
“What were you thinking?” she says in my general direction.
Heart in my throat, I skate over to her. “Is your hand okay?”
“Brayden, get him out of here,” she says without even looking at me.
“Adeline.” I huff, my blood still boiling. “Look at me.”
“If you don’t get off my goddamn ice, Hanson,” she says, focus fixed on her hand, “you’ll be riding the bench for the first two weeks of the season.”
Brayden pushes me back and I go without a fight.
