Page 19 of Ricochet

Turns out punching Stone might’vehelped a little after all.

I still had about an hour before practice, so I spent that time taking a nice long walk around campus. It did little to help clear my head. The entire time, it was swimming with images of pale green eyes and bloody lips.

My hand hurts like hell, and I had to wrap it before practice. When I got to the rink, Stone was already there, skating alone out on the ice. I only had a few seconds before the rest of the team followed me out from the locker room.

If he knew I was there watching him, he didn’t let it show.

But that’s all I did. Just watched him out there. He skated a full circuit around the rink at a speed that rivaled my own, his body leaning into every curve, ice spraying behind him.

I know he’s right.

We could actually do something this year. He’s a damn good player.

And I owe this team.

So I’m doing what I told him I would.

I’m trying harder.

While Nate, Stone, and I run drills together, I’m sharing the puck more than I did yesterday. The three of us pass it around center ice, easily outmaneuvering the second-line defense. Stone spins, takes off on a breakaway, shoots. The puck flies into the back of the net.

We take turns attacking the goal. Fitz actually manages to block a couple shots of Nate’s and one of my own. It earns him more praise than he’s used to by the coaches and the rest of the team. It must help because when we all start on offensive zone drills, he beats his previous record of blocks.

As we head off the ice after practice, Stone skates up beside me and taps his stick against mine.

“Thanks for actually playing with me today.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” I tell him as we head down the tunnel. “I did it for the team.”

“Right. Well, if you need to beat me up a little before practice and games so we play like that, let me know so I can invest in a value size bottle of Tylenol.”

Yeah, if that’s what it’s going to take, I’ll be popping that shit like candy.

My hand kills.

Gripping my stick for the past two hours after punching Stone in his surprisingly hard face certainly didn’t make it feel any better. I’ll probably be sticking it in a bucket of ice as soon as I get home.

But I don’t want to punch him again. I shouldn’t have done it the first time.

I can’t let myself give into that darkness again.

Mine nor his.

Once in the locker room, we start stripping out of our gear. When I remove my base layer, I notice it again.

Stone avoids looking at me.

I became aware of it the first time.

Normally, he has no problem letting his gaze find me over and over again. But I’ve realized as soon as I take off my shirt, it’s gone.

It’s the same when we get into the showers. Not that I’m looking at him either. I hate that I can usually sense him—like his eyes have fucking branded me—but right now I don’t. Not until we’re back in the locker room and my clothes are on.

Like it’s nothing, his eyes are on me again as he says he’ll see me in class tomorrow.

And my eyes are on him as he turns to leave.

I have no idea what that’s about. Maybe he does realize after all that’s why I hate him as much as I do. Neither of us have brought up that moment from five years ago, but it must exist somewhere in his mind.