The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers, #1)(51)
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Cadieux,” I growl, heat nesting in the pit of my gut, urging me to stick my toe over the edge. “And if there’s a single brain cell in that empty fucking head of yours, I’d watch what you say next.”
His reedy grin makes me sick. “I saw those photos of her at the sponsorship party. If what her body looked like in that black dress is any indication of what it’s like out of it, I wouldn’t mind sticking my dick inside her tight little cunt.”
What the fuck did he just say?
I don’t even hear the whistle over the hammering of my own heart, and in the blink of an eye, Cadieux is off with the puck. My teammates are yelling at me, same with the fans, anger and disappointment hitting me from all sides. There’s a fissure of rage cracking deep inside me, and if I don’t close it soon, the Atlanta Avocets are going to lose a very critical player.
I skate over to Cadieux—who’s about a few feet from our goal—and something inside of me snaps.
Lunacy rakes through me when my right hook contacts Cadieux’s jaw, my fist breaking bone in a crack that can be heard around the world. Blood fountains onto the unblemished ice, tarnishing the surface with an oppressive shade of red, and I can feel my skin split across my knuckles underneath my glove. It burns, but it’s not strong enough to counteract the wrath inside me.
It feels like my fury has surpassed the hundred on a high striker, demolishing that bell at the very top. I can handle some trash talk, but when it comes to talking shit about the people I care about, I turn into a monster.
I hit him again—since nobody’s rushing over to stop me—and he spews some teeth.
I have to give it to Cadieux, I thought he’d be down for the count, but he’s more resilient than I gave him credit for. I have a lot of fighting experience under my belt, and I could spend the rest of the game making Cadieux eat his words, so I’m surprised when he swings at the bottom of my mouth. An ache slingshots through my bones from the force. It’s not enough to knock me on my ass, but it’s enough for sickle-shaped droplets to spurt from the gash on my lower lip.
Cadieux’s next punch barely grazes me, and I take advantage of his inexperience to whale on him some more, giving him a gnarly shiner. Our teammates finally spring to action and pull us apart.
Embers of rage sweep through me, hot enough to burn through skin and muscle. My chest is rising and falling with each hurried breath.
Out of my peripheral, I see Aeris standing up with her hand over her mouth. The full-blown inferno that was rampaging through me has now descended to a warm buzz, and it’s given me a split second to fully process what I’ve just done. Shit.
Everyone’s looking at me liked I’ve just committed a murder in broad daylight.
“Riverside Reapers, number eighteen, five minutes for fighting.”
I take out my mouthguard so I can yell at the ref. “This is fucking stupid!” I shout, hostility drenching my voice.
Bristol brushes past me. “Shake it off, man.”
The next thing I know, I’m getting up close and personal with the penalty box. I should’ve just bodychecked Cadieux. I didn’t need to ensure a full-out brawl. And now my team might suffer because of my careless mistake.
What’s Aeris going to think? Yeah, she knows I have a bit of a temper, but she’s never seen it in person. And that was probably one of the worst fights I’ve gotten into since I’ve entered the NHL.
One of the opposing players navigates past Fulton and scores a goal, leaving us a point behind with less than ten minutes left in the game. My fists curl in the safety of my gloves, and a curse shoots out of me. I’m breathing like I’ve just run a marathon, an emotion overload threatening to trample me. The five minutes go by exceedingly fast—thank God—and Bristol scores a goal as soon as I’m let back onto the ice.
It’s 3-4. We’re down to a minute. A tie isn’t great, but I’ll take it over losing.
I’m on the offense’s heels when the puck is intercepted by Casen, and I race down the length of the rink alongside him. The breath in the stadium is bated, the cold air misting around my face. I don’t know where Aeris is, but I can feel her eyes on me like a set of high beams. My heart rate rockets. Just one more goal. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s counting on me.
Casen passes the puck to me, and I only have the distance for a single swoop to get it in the goal. There are about three players on my tail. Thirty seconds left on the clock. The second that beauty is in my eyeline, I keep it in front of me, skating backwards to dodge a lunge from one of the defensemen. I send the puck in at an angle, watching as it flies toward the corner of the net.
But before it can make it in, the goalie’s stick comes up and blocks my shot. The buzzer sounds the end of the game. The stands rattle with boos and angry insults alike, nearly taking out my eardrums. My teammates don’t crowd around me. Everything stills.
We just lost.
When I finally exit the stadium, the cold cement underneath my well-worn shoes is doing little to extirpate the heat looping through my body. Petrichor perfumes the atmosphere as a duvet of darkness swaddles me. The night sky is gray and sunless, laden with thick storm clouds that blot out the moon and stars. It’s going to rain soon, and I don’t want to wait around for my clothes to get drenched.