He swallows, his head tilted back, then refocuses on the game.
They need to win. Jess explained on the bus, before Greyson dragged me away like a Neanderthal, that they had to win this one and their last game of the season if they want to advance.
It’s stressful.
My phone vibrates, and I yank it out of my pocket.
Greyson
You seem worried. Don’t be.
I’m not worried about you.
Whatever helps you sleep at night…
Egomaniac.
Me
Why aren’t you on the ice?
Because I’ve been playing straight through since the game started. Why did you miss half of the first period?
Damn him for noticing—and for bringing up memories I’m trying to leave behind right now.
Me
Tell you what…
Winning is a team effort. If you want my secrets, I need you to prove you deserve them.
His little typing bubble pops up, then disappears. Again. I watch it, ignoring the rest of the game. Hell, ignoring the rest of the world. Then it comes through.
Greyson
Do you have something in mind?
I can feel his intrigue from here. I bite my lip. I know immediately what I want to ask for, but I hesitate for a split second. My fingers hover over the screen. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I waver, then go for it.
Me
Get your hands bloody next time.
It’s a dare I shouldn’t make. I shouldn’t ask for his violence. But I look up and find him staring at me. Helmet off, hair a mess. It stands straight up, like he ran his fingers through it a few times. His expression is… wonder.
Or horror.
It’s hard to tell from this angle.
He didn’t expect this. And why would he? Why would he expect a level of bloodthirstiness from me? But I’m beginning to discover that I like the dark side of him. That it’s oddly attractive—but I want to see him pitted against someone else. I want to see how far he’ll go.
He leans over and says something to his coach, who waves him off.
I glance at the scoreboard, at the seconds ticking down to end the first period. The Knights are winning, one to zero. The buzzer sounds. The game stops.
I sit back. Will he take the challenge?
And the bigger question: will I give him my secrets if he does?
27
GREYSON
Coach taps my arm, and I hop up onto the wall dividing the rink from our bench. My replacement, a junior named Finch, skates toward me and practically dives over. A split second later, my blades touch the ice and I’m off.
I move into position, my muscles stretching and warming back up. I’ve had precious few breaks—all the starters have been rotated out, giving us a chance to breathe, but then we’re right back in. The other team is faring no better.
This game is testing us. The Knights haven’t been fighting fair, and I have the sneaking suspicion the refs aren’t on our side. Because of that, I’ve played the second period with my head screwed on right. Sweat soaks down my back.
Still, I love this sport. My blood sings, adrenaline pumps, and the roar of the crowd just makes me fight harder for it.
I catch a glimpse of Violet out of the corner of my eye. Her friends are all preoccupied, and she looks lost.
The right wing from the Knights skates past and pushes his stick in front of me. I don’t see it until I’m right on top of it, and it hooks around my ankle.
I go sprawling across the ice.
My anger flashes, boiling through me, and I push myself back up. Now’s my chance.
“HEY!” I yell, chasing after the guy who tripped me.
Normally, it would be a flag. A power play for us, a trip to the penalty box for the son of a bitch who did it. But the refs aren’t paying attention, even as I skate full-speed into the Knight. I crash into him and immediately grab the front of his jersey. I curl my fingers under the edge of his helmet and pull until it pops off his head.
He shoves back at me, a sneer curling his lips.
Fucking prick.
I’m not going to lie—I see red. I get in two hits to his face before the rest of our teams swarm us. I’m vaguely aware of Knox beside me, pushing at some asshole on the other team. Our limbs tangle. Pain shoots across my knuckles. I feel a crack, but I keep fucking going.
Finally, someone rips me off the guy.
I didn’t even realize he and I had fallen and I was on top of him.
Someone locks my arms up, their hands pressing to the back of my head.
“Chill the fuck out, Devereux.” It’s Coach in my ear. Coach dragging me away.
I thrash for a second, then go still. I let him pull me clear and then right myself. I’ve never seen him on the ice before. Not during a game—not even when the fights break out. He doesn’t like to get his suit ruffled.
“Get to the bench,” he orders.
I collect my forgotten stick and take a seat. My cheek throbs. Somewhere along the way, I lost my helmet, too. Knox arrives, dropping down beside me, and hands me my helmet. I take it and shake my head.
“Don’t start,” I grumble.
“The asswipe tripped you, and the refs did nothing.” Knox shrugs. “The whole team deserved the beatdown.”
I glance at him. His eyebrow is split open, blood dripping down his temple.
Everyone has cleared off the ice except the refs and the two coaches. There seems to be some arguing going on.
“Here,” one of the assistant coaches says, coming down the line behind us. He hands Knox and me a pack of gauze.
I avert my eyes.
Well, I fucking got my hands bloody. Like Violet wanted.
Violet… more like Violent. Who knew under such an angelic face lived a monster as sadistic as me?
A knuckle on my left hand is hot to the touch. My skin is split open on both hands, but that one feels the worst.
Broken, maybe.
Fucking hell.
The assistant coach shuffles back down behind us and moves Knox over. He takes my hands and presses on my knuckles. When I hiss, he tuts. I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut, because now he’s glaring at me like I’m never going to play again. Dramatic asshole.
I’m ready to pick a fight with anyone and everyone.
“It’s fine,” I grit out.
My ring finger is tingling.
The assistant coach, fresh out of college himself, scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
He wraps my hand in gauze, interweaving around my fingers to keep them immobile. He gestures to the gauze in my lap. “Use that to take care of your other hand.”
He moves away. Knox and I exchange a glance. I don’t know what to fucking say—the guy tripped me. What resulted should be on the Knights, not us. I lean forward to look down the line. A few seem in bad shape—Miles has blood on his jersey, and his smile is bloody. He’s got his helmet off, too, sitting there right as rain—and hungry for more blood.
Good.
We’re down by a goal. We’ll need the bloodthirstiness to keep going, to push harder. We’re only two minutes into the third period.
Coach Roake, the Knights’ coach, and the referees finally break their little huddle. Roake strides across the ice in his fucking dress shoes like it’s concrete, stepping up out of the rink. He’s pissed.
“Devereux,” Coach says. His voice carries down to us. “Penalty box. Five minutes. But after that, you’re out.”
I stand. “Coach,” I protest. “Out?”