He points at me. “A fucking five-minute power play because you couldn’t keep your shit together. Do you think your teammates want to pick up your slack?”
Fucking hell.
I hop over the wall and skate to the penalty box. It kills me when the rest of the starters take their positions. At least the defense is strong. Miles flashes me a grin as he goes by. The suited guy sitting next to me, to make sure I actually stay in for the allotted time and no one else replaces me on the ice, ignores me.
I take a seat on the short bench and tap my stick against the mat. Even when I get out of here, I’m apparently replaced.
The game restarts. I force myself to watch every move they make, hunting for weakness. My hands pinch with pain from how hard I’m gripping my stick. It’s killing me to be locked up for so long.
This is Violet’s fault.
Would I have gone as crazy as I did if she hadn’t put the thought into my head?
No. I’m always calm, cool, collected. I’m the skater coaches dream of having on their roster. I don’t start fights, but sometimes I finish them.
Tonight, I threw the first punch.
The refs wouldn’t throw me out of the game for that. Fighting is technically allowed. It’s a brutal sport, after all. No, this is Roake’s decision.
I grumble to myself, leaning forward and bracing my elbows on my knees.
Somehow, we manage to hold them off. No one scores.
When the man opens the door for me, I burst out onto the ice and charge forward. Coach yells my name, and I ignore him. He’s going to give me shit for this. I catch a glimpse of my replacement sitting on the wall, waiting for me to get over there.
Knox skates up beside me. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
“You’re going to get your ass reamed.”
I grunt. Worth it if we win.
The puck comes back up to us, a shot long by Steele. I cradle it and shoot forward, dodging around an incoming Knight player. It’s not the same jackass who tripped me—I think he might be out, too, to tend to his face. I pass to Knox, who keeps it for a moment before sending it right back to me.
Erik, on the other side of the rink, races toward the goal.
I clench my teeth and snap the puck to him.
He fakes a shot, making the goalie react, but it flies back to me instead. I flip the puck above the goalie’s outstretched glove, and it soars into the net.
Tied game.
I clap Erik on the shoulder. He does the same to me, his lips widening into a grin behind his mouth guard.
“DEVEREUX,” Coach screams.
I wince. Erik is quiet, which is unusual. He always has a half-assed comment when one of us gets yelled at. I skate to the wall and grind to a stop before I crash into it.
Coach grabs the front of my jersey. “You think this is funny?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“You think you can just make your own decisions?”
Um… well, it worked out in our favor. Not that there’s a chance in hell I’d say that out loud. I know Coach is good for an ass beating if we deserve it. Or a verbal lashing—each are unpleasant, in my experience.
“Sit,” Coach orders. “Don’t move a fucking muscle the rest of the game. If you get up, if you so much as shift, you’re off the team.”
Chills sweep down my spine.
He’s not messing around.
I hop over the wall and give him a wide berth. I find a seat on the back row, against a wall, and sit heavily. I pull my helmet off and set it beside me. Then gloves, which didn’t do shit for my knuckles. I lean my stick against the wall.
And then I watch my team fight like hell to win.
But, eventually, my gaze scans the crowd.
I find Violet again, as much as I shouldn’t.
I want to know what she’s thinking. Her eyes move, seemingly at random, to mine. We stare at each other, ignoring the world, and my stomach knots. Another thing to fault her for.
Another thing to punish her for.
I’m looking forward to it.
28
VIOLET
Greyson
Stay after the game.
In your seat.
Why?
Because I fucking said so.
Sounds dangerous.
When have you not liked danger?
Admit it—there’s a thrill going through you right now. Maybe you’re squeezing your hand into a fist trying to fight it, or you’re clamping your thighs together. The thought of us alone… in this stadium?
I shiver and don’t answer him.
I can’t.
Because he’s right, his words do something to me. Something uncomfortable, that I’m not willing to admit. Not even to myself.
Knox scores with ten seconds left, officially breaking the tie. Willow—and the rest of the girls—jump up from their chairs, screaming and cheering. My own reaction is delayed, my phone clenched in my hand. I force myself to be happy, to clap and holler along with my friends.
There’s one more play, the ref dropping the puck, and then the buzzer sounds.
Game over.
The Hawks won—barely. By the skin of their teeth, with Greyson benched for the second half of the final period. Both teams look like they went through a war, but our blue-and-silver-clad team rushes out onto the ice in celebration.
“Come on,” Willow says, tugging on my hand. “We’re going out to celebrate.”
I smile and stay seated. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Her gaze sweeps my face, and she eventually nods. “Text me if you want me to come back to the hotel room. Even if it’s only ten minutes from now. Got it?”
My breath hitches, and I force another smile. “Got it. Thanks, Willow.”
She leaves with Jess and Amanda. It takes some time for everyone in the section to go. Paris doesn’t so much as look at me as she sweeps by, but I hear her mention Greyson. Maybe she thinks this is her own version of a power play. Doing what she does best, flirting with him in a crowd full of people.
I swallow.
Slowly, slowly, the whole stadium empties. A Zamboni drives out onto the ice, the driver old and weathered. He maps a crawling path around the rink, and the ice returns to a smooth, blank slate. I track him with my eyes, unable to do anything else.
My nerves are shot.
Eventually, he finishes and rumbles through the opening. Silence reigns.
It forces me to concentrate on my heartbeat. My body. The dull ache in my leg.
Nerve pain.
I don’t want to think about how long my body has betrayed me. I want… something more than a distraction. Something worse.
And then a door from the players’ bench swings open, and Greyson steps out onto the ice. He’s shed his pads, the uniform. He wears a form-fitting black sweater and jeans. His skates are laced over them. His hair is wet.
He glides to me and presses his hands to the glass.
We stare at each other, and then, with deliberation, he tips his head to the gate left open by the Zamboni. Do I want to go out onto the ice? Not particularly.
Still, I rise and find my way down there. It takes several painstaking minutes, and then I’m in a mat-covered hallway. I spot the Zamboni first, parked against a wall, and then the opening.
Greyson waits for me there.
His hands are wrapped, his left thicker than the right. It doesn’t stop him from extending them toward me, and it doesn’t stop me from taking them. He steadies me as I take my first step onto the ice.