Page 83 of Ricochet
Nate’s eyes are wide, his jaw slack. Then he shakes his head and lets loose a laugh. “You two wanted to fucking kill each other a couple months ago. I shouldn’t even be surprised.” When he looks back at me, his eyes narrow. “Unfortunately, this clearly presents a problem.”
Callum steps forward, dropping his arms. “I told him last night he can’t pull that shit anymore. He said he won’t.”
“And you believe him?”
I fucking hate how they’re talking as though I’m not standing right here. However, Ireallydon’t want to be benched this game—let alone watch Callum and Eric playing together on the ice for an hour and a half—so I keep my mouth shut.
“I do,” Callum says.
Nate nods slowly, considering. “Alright. I’ll tell Coach I think you should play. But this is the only time I’m sticking up for you. Got it, Wakefield?”
“Got it, Captain.” I turn to Callum as Nate stalks off to his own station. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Eh.” He shrugs, grinning. “The thrill of sneaking around wasn’t going to last forever. Besides…” He steps closer, his bright eyes fixed on mine except for the brief flick down to my mouth. “We’ll have plenty of other thrills to look forward to.”
I’d kiss him right now if our entire team wasn’t in this room and I knew he didn’t mind public displays of affection.
When he turns away to start changing into his gear, my eyes seek out Eric. I can’t help it. I find him on the other side of the locker room, and as though he senses me, he turns his head. There’s a neutral expression on his face, but if anyone else was looking close enough, they’d see the hard set of his jaw, the way his knuckles turn white from the grip he has on his pads.
I knew he was a fucking weasel.
As we all get out on the ice to start practice, I feel more eyes on me than usual. There’s Callum’s, but I’m used to his. There’s Eric’s, whose occasional glares I catch being thrown my way. Then there’s Coach’s, who’s watching me like a hawk.
Before the game starts, he grabs my sweater in a tight fist and hauls me close so he can growl low in my ear. It’s nothing like the growls that came from Callum last night, but it’s one nonetheless.
“If you play any dirtier tonight than you know I let you get away with, I’ll have you off this team so fast your head will fucking spin.”
“Yes, sir, Coach.”
At least I got the all-clear to still play dirty.
That’s Coach Hill for you.
So, of course, when the opposing team’s number fifty-seven slashes Callum’s glove with his stick while they’re battling in the crease, I take that as my opportunity.
Even though the hit barely seems to have fazed Callum, I rush in, holding the shaft of my stick in both hands and cross-checking the motherfucker. The hit lands so hard that he’s knocked down and goes skidding across the ice until he hits the boards.
This time, before a fight even breaks out, I skate back and hold my hands in the air.
It’s not nearly enough.
Fifty-seven receives a minor penalty, while I get a major. But at least it’s only five minutes in the sin bin instead of last night’s fifteen.
As I skate past Callum, our gazes locked, I ask, “Happy?”
He rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss his reluctant grin or his begrudging, “Very.”
Those repeated words from last night have my mouth turning up in a wide smile. As I skate backwards toward the penalty box, I blow him a kiss.
The other team is awarded another power play, but our guys hold them off until I come rushing back out onto the ice.
We win the game that night.
I’m jolted out of adeep sleep by a kick to my shin.
Fuck, that hurt.
That’s my first thought. My second is that Callum’s in trouble.