Meanwhile, I’m as pissed as Rand, because I clearly communicated I was going for the slot. All Colson had to do was fucking listen and the puck would be on his stick right now.
Still, it’s probably not the smartest move on my part, as we skate into face-off position on our next shift, when I scowl at Colson and mutter, “Maybe listen this time?”
That gets his back up. I blink and he’s in my face. His arm comes out, not quite to the point of a shove. More of a tap.
I stare down at his glove on my arm. Then I look up. Shocked and angry. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Keep your goddamn commentary to yourself,” he snaps at me. “We’re trying to play a game here.”
Except these five seconds of bickering get us the whistle. The referee calls delay of game.
Jesus Christ.
We took a fucking penalty.
“What the hell,” Demaine growls as he shoots off toward the bench so Coach can get the penalty kill team on.
“Are you kidding me right now?” The vein on Jensen’s forehead looks like it’s about to explode. “Delay of game?” he screams toward our penalty boxes.
Colson and I both duck our heads. He’s right to scream. There are many penalties that can be avoided, and the one we took is definitely one of them. Especially when it’s called because you’re arguing with your own teammate. No, worse—your cocaptain.
Coach’s eyes tell me we’re in grave danger right now. Brown capitalizes on our error and scores on the penalty.
2–1, Brown.
Case and I are out of the sin bin and return to the ice to do damage control. With two minutes left, a beauty from Larsen brings the score to 2–2. The five-minute overtime period ends scoreless, so now we’ve got a second tie on our record. It’s not a loss, but it might as well be the way Coach fumes in the locker room.
Luckily, he spares us a prolonged verbal ass-kicking. He simply walks in, snaps his index finger from me to Case, and barks out one word: “Deplorable.” Then he addresses the rest of the room. “Shower and change. I’ll see you on the bus.”
Fuck.
This season is off to a tragic start. Only one win so far. And now, tonight, our latest game ends in a tie because the damned cocaptains took a penalty they shouldn’t have. I don’t blame Coach for being mad. He’s used to winning the Frozen Four, and that’s starting to look like a pipe dream this season.
We reconvene on the bus. The mood is glum. It’s a ninety-minute drive back to the Briar campus; about ten minutes in, I notice Jensen get up to talk to the driver.
Ten seconds after that, the bus stops on the side of the road.
Shane, my seatmate, lifts his head from his phone. He was texting with yet another cheerleader, who he’s been hanging out with all week. “What’s this?”
“Colson. Ryder. Get up.”
Case and I exchange a nervous look at the forbidding command. We rise from our seats.
“This is your stop.”
I turn toward the window. All I see is pitch blackness. This side of the two-lane highway offers nothing but a gravel shoulder and a dark stretch of forest.
“What do mean this is our stop?” Colson echoes. He’s puzzled. “You want us to walk home?”
Jensen’s smile is all teeth and no humor. “Think of it as another team-building exercise.”
“Abandoning us in the middle of the woods to a serial killer is team-building?” Tristan Yoo blurts out.
“First of all, there is no ‘us.’ It’s them. So calm down, Yoo.” Coach nods. “But you raise a good point.”
He extends his gaze over the sea of male faces until it lands on someone a few rows behind Beckett. A sophomore named Terrence who isn’t a starter.
“Boy Scout, you always carry that Swiss army knife around. You have it on you?”
“Yessir.”
“Hand it over.”
“Yessir.”
Coach scans the bus again. “Let’s not pretend none of you smoke or have smoked a substance in your life. I need two lighters. Pass ’em up.”
A couple of lighters make their way up the rows until they’re in his hands. Jensen slaps one in my palm, the other in Case’s. The army knife also goes to Case. I make a mental note of that. I guess between the two of us, Jensen believes I’m the one more likely to murder the other and thus shouldn’t possess the weapon. Not sure if I should take that as a compliment or insult.
“You have your phones. You have fire. You have protection. You’ve got your jackets.” He plucks a bag of chips out of a startled Nazem’s hands. “And some food. All the tools you need to survive the night. The bus will pick you up from this location in the morning.”
“Coach, come on. This is insanity,” Colson protests. “You can’t just—”
“I can’t just what?”
Case falls silent.
“Because the way I see it, I can’t just have my team captains taking delay-of-game penalties because they’re squabbling like toddlers who haven’t had their naps. Clearly your time with the Laredos isn’t working.”
“Yeah, because they’re batshit crazy,” Patrick mumbles.
Choked laughter echoes through the bus.
“At the end of the day, what happened tonight—this game that we should have won and didn’t—is on you. Both of you.” He looks from me to Case, his mouth pinched in a tight line. “It’s about forty miles to Hastings, and if you choose to walk, it’s going to take you all night. I personally suggest you hunker down and camp out for the night. Use the time to squash the beef. Make it right. The bus will be back here at 6:00 a.m.” He bares his teeth and points to the door. “Get moving.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
RYDER
She’s fucking me, bro
“THIS IS BULLSHIT.” CASE KICKS A ROCK AS WE HUDDLE ON THE side of the highway like a pair of Dickensian orphans.
So far, we haven’t ventured into the woods. We’re still loitering on the gravel shoulder, where Colson keeps alternating between kicking pebbles and looking at his phone.
I frown at him. “You should save your battery.”
“Come on. He’s not actually going to leave us out here all night.”
“Pretty sure he is, bro.”
Case narrows his eyes.
“He gave us a Swiss army knife and lighters,” I say with a harsh laugh. “Of course he’s not coming back. We pissed him off good tonight with that penalty.”
“Yeah. We did.”
Colson steps forward and peers down the dark road. Not a single car has passed since the bus left us in its rearview mirror.
“Are there any active serial killers out here?” he asks. “Wasn’t there, like, a highway killer a while back on the West Coast? Do you think there’s an East Coast one?”
“Why? Are you scared?” I mock.
“No. I just feel exposed here. You know what. Fuck it. I’m going to start a campfire.”
At that, Colson takes off toward the woods. The silver stripes on his black hockey jacket glint beneath a shard of moonlight that’s escaped a patch of clouds.
“You coming?” He glances over his shoulder.
“Yeah, whatever.”