Page 13 of Callous Shot

When internal alarms started blaring in our world, you listened. Especially when Operation Foxglove were sniffing around. It might be nothing, but my gut told me to watch out.

“Hoyton? Are you going to leave the ice today?”

I startled, finding Anton Volkov staring at me with furrowed brows, and I huffed out a breath.

“Yeah.” I turned away from the figure and headed towards the exit.

I could feel his eyes on me all the way to the door that led to the locker rooms.

After a post-game talk by Ryker with a surprise feature appearance from Enzo Fontana, the Flames captain, during which they revealed a hastily concocted and ill-advised plan for our two teams to become besties, it was time for me to complete my final task of the day.

Yep. It was time for me to channel my inner postie.

I skulked around outside the Flames’ locker rooms, receiving several side-eyes and dark looks from the players as they filed out. After fifteen minutes of waiting with no sign of a certain dark-haired, tattooed wanker, I’d had enough. I strolled inside the locker room.

The empty locker room.

“Bellingham! Where are you hiding?” My shout echoed around the space.

A crash came from the bank of lockers at the far end of the room, and I stalked over to them, rounding the corner and catching myself just in time to stop my forehead from cracking against my enemy’s.

“What the hell do you want?” Lincoln growled as he slammed a locker door shut. “I thought you were ignoring me.”

“Aww. Did you miss my chirps in the third period?” I put on a sad face, which was harder than it sounded when I was trying not to smile with the knowledge that I’d managed to get to him.

“Best third period of my life,” he shot back.

“Even though you lost?”

“Fuck you.” He shoved at my chest, but I was prepared, pushing back against him. We ended up grappling up against the lockers, neither of us willing to give an inch, snarling in each other’s faces.

“Dan? Link! Break it up. Now.”

The command came from behind me, and we immediately sprang apart, breathing heavily and glaring at each other.

“Dan. What are you doing in our locker room?”

I tore my gaze away from Lincoln’s, turning to Enzo. “Sorry, bro. I was just here to pass something to Bellingham. I’ll be on my way now.” Tugging the note from my pocket, I shoved it at Lincoln’s chest, his fingers brushing against mine as he reflexively caught it. My skin tingled at the touch, and I exhaled sharply. I hated the way my loathing for this asshole manifested itself in weird physical ways. It needed to stop.

“See you at the party later. Remember, it’s neutral territory tonight. That means no talk of our rivalry, and no gloating, alright?” Enzo warned, his hard gaze flicking between me and Bellingham.

I nodded. “Got it. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

I’d try, anyway, but being forced into the same location as my nemesis and adding alcohol into the mix was a shitstorm waiting to happen. It had been easier when we were just passing notes to each other with no other interaction, but prolonged proximity? Yeah. There was no way either of us was getting through the night unscathed.

6

LINCOLN

Enzo glanced over at me as my fingers tightened around my beer bottle, watching the Cranham Kings swagger into Ashbrook House like they owned the place. “Not a fan of my plan, I take it?”

My jaw clenched. “I get why you and Thorpe came up with this idea to try and break some of the tension between the teams, but it doesn’t fix the problem, does it?”

“Which is?” His brows lifted in challenge, and my words died in my throat. Because Vincenzo Fontana was one of them, really. He was in the mafia, along with his younger sister, Vesper, who was the same age as me. It was enough for them to be shunned by a large minority of the Whelford student population, although Enzo had it much easier than his sister did, being the hockey team captain. That, and he was a good-looking guy. Maybe it was more accurate to say he was shunned by the students on campus who weren’t into sports—unless they involved a racquet or a rowing boat.

“Uh…” I cleared my throat. “You know how the students here feel about Cranham Uni. Add in the fact that their team beat us today, and we know they’re going to gloat while we’re drowning our sorrows. Inviting them here? Don’t you think it’s a disaster waiting to happen?”

Ashbrook House was one of our student houses, a five-storey nineteenth-century building consisting of a combination of individual flats and larger shared accommodations. It was also nicknamed “the party house” by Whelford students, with good reason. And now the Cranham Kings were here in our territory, sullying it with their presence.