Brutal Obsession (63)

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?”

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