Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 23

The hockey schedule sits open on my laptop while I work. Every practice time, every game highlighted in red. Three weeks since Brody ghosted me, and I've memorized his routine. Tonight's game is circled twice.

My dorm neighbor’s sewing machine whirs under my fingers as I transform his Ravens shirt. Each cut strategic, each stitch deliberate. The oversized black fabric becomes something else entirely—something that will make him remember.

"This is getting weird," Kiah says from her bed, not looking up from her phone. The space between us grows with each passing day. Her traumatizing night is massive to her but tiny on my scale. We aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything anymore. Maybe because I’m sick in the head and got off on how hot that traumatizing night was.

I'm adjusting the final hem when my phone buzzes. The first image loads and my stomach drops. My mom is in a car trunk, unconscious. Her hospital bracelet visible against the dark interior.

Unknown: Tick tock

My fingers go numb. This is Rick Kemper using Brody's words exactly from his email. He currently has my mom in the trunk of his car? Is he fucking crazy? He didn’t give me enough time!

I push away from my desk, yanking my newly altered Ravens shirt over my head. Rick Kemper is trying to motivate me, fine. I guess they picked the right night. Hockey game first and then Reaper party after. I line my eyes darker than usual, swipe on the red lipstick I never wear. Tonight I need all eyes on me.

The drive to the rink clears my head. Get his attention. Simple.

I slip inside ten minutes late, just as two players crash into the boards right in front of my seat. The sound of bodies colliding echoes through the rink, and something shifts in my chest. This isn't just a game—it's controlled violence, precise brutality.

I watch with excitement as it happens again on the other side. Hell, I’m going to love this fucking sport.

Brody steals the puck, weaving between defenders like he was born on ice. My breath catches as Jack slams another player into the glass. There's an art to this violence that my classical-trained brain recognizes.

"Come on, Ravens!" The cheer surprises me, ripping from my throat as Brody sets up a perfect play. He passes the puck and it hits the net, and I'm on my feet with the rest of the crowd.

I came here with an agenda, but watching these guys battle it out on the ice—there's something pure about it. For the first time in weeks, I forget about secret societies and underground chambers. Even just for a second, I forget my mom’s tied up in a trunk. I just want to see another goal. I want the Ravens to win.

The final buzzer screams victory. I'm on my feet with everyone else, throat raw from shouting, hands stinging from clapping. Who knew hockey could be this intoxicating? The whole game was pure chaos contained by rules I barely understand—like some violent symphony where the penalty box serves as a timeout corner for grown men who punch too hard.

The crowd surges forward, and I find myself pressed against the glass with the other fans. My palms slam against the plexiglass, joining the thunderous rhythm. Security should probably stop us, but they're caught up in the win too, everyone riding this collective high.

"Ravens! Ravens! Ravens!"

The chant builds like a crescendo, and the team responds with primal shouts, skating victory laps. Someone dumps a bucket of ice over Noah's head, and the crowd erupts. I'm laughing, really laughing, for the first time in weeks. This wild celebration feels more honest than any refined applause I've heard in concert halls.

Then Brody turns, still breathing hard from the game, sweat gleaming on his face. His eyes scan the crowd like he's searching for something. When they land on me, the world narrows to this moment. His intensity should frighten me—this is the same man who orchestrated torture, who's playing some game I still don't understand. Instead, his face breaks into an actual smile, transforming him from predator to triumphant athlete.

My heart stutters. I raise my hand in a small wave before I can stop myself, and he shakes his finger at me—playful, almost flirtatious. For a split second, I glimpse the boy Amanda fell for in high school, before his brother's accident, before the Reapers. He's beautiful like this, dangerous in a different way than usual.

The rational part of my brain screams warnings—about my mother, about the photos, about everything he's done. But watching him celebrate with his team, ice crystals catching in his hair, I understand how easy it would be to fall for this version of him. The version that smiles like he means it.

I press my hand harder against the glass, and for a moment, I let myself forget why I came here. Let myself be just another girl watching a hockey god celebrate his win.

Watching Brody disappear into the locker room feels like waking from a dream. For a moment, I almost forgot why I'm here—almost let his victory smile derail everything. But that's his power, isn't it? Making me forget the darkness just long enough to pull me deeper into it.

My dorm room's already occupied when I arrive. Amanda's sprawled across my bed while Kiah hovers in the corner, worry etched across her face. The moment our eyes meet, Kiah starts, "Lola, please don't—"

"Save it." The word comes out sharper than my bow across strings. Amanda's smirk tells me she approves. When did I start caring about her approval? When did Kiah's concern start feeling like weakness?

We ignore Kiah's protests as we get ready. The Ravens shirt I altered stays on—my battle armor for tonight. Black leather pants and boots complete the transformation. The pellet gun is in my purse, along with a plastic bag, and tiny but mighty string. Amanda pours herself into a black dress that probably costs more than my cello, adding leggings and knee-high boots. We look like avenging angels. Or demons.

The Uber ride buzzes with pre-game shots. "I only took music comp because I want a career in music," Amanda confesses, her usual mean-girl facade softening. "Thought it would make me stand out."

"From what? Your trust fund?"

She laughs instead of bristling. "God, you're actually kind of funny when you're not being such a bitch."

"The class is a little boring, isn’t it?" I ask, taking another shot.

She laughs. "To me? Yeah, but don’t pretend like you don’t love it because I know you do."

I laugh because she’s right. It’s my favorite class.

The Reaper standing guard at the mansion doesn't make me flinch like before. His mask that once seemed terrifying now looks almost theatrical. Amanda catches my eye and we share a dark laugh—we've seen scarier things than costume shop demons.

"Come on." I pull her toward the drinks, grateful the actual Reapers aren't around yet. "Let's see how much trouble we can cause before they show up."

We are too many shots in, and we already need a bathroom break. We laugh as we make our way down the hall. We are currently the loudest two here right now.

"Did you see the way she was looking us?" Amanda laughs. "Jealous bitch! We should go talk shit to her."

We stumble into the bathroom and lock the door. The bathroom's too bright as I sit on the toilet first. Then Amanda uses it. Tequila burns warm in my veins as I steady myself against the marble counter. Amanda's giggling behind me as I reapply my lipstick, the red somehow darker under these lights.

"What's the game plan?" My words slur slightly at the edges. "For tonight?"

Amanda appears in the mirror behind me, her perfect makeup starting to smudge. "Let's both fuck Brody." Her smile's got an edge to it, testing me.

The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. If she only knew what happened with Kiah, and if only she knew what Brody would say, he’s not sharing me. "That's the last thing I'm doing tonight," I grin.

"Fine." She bumps my hip with hers. "I'll take him, you find another hottie."

"Sure." The word comes out lighter than I feel.

"Sure?" She spins me around, suddenly serious despite the alcohol. "You said he was mine… that I could have him, remember?"

Another laugh escapes, but this one feels dangerous. "I did."

"Did you mean it?" she asks, already drunk.

"Meant it." I smile at her.

We stumble back toward the drinks, arms linked like we’re best friends. But something in my chest feels hollow. Maybe it's the tequila, or maybe it's knowing that while Amanda plots to seduce Brody, I know he’s going to turn her down for whatever game he’s playing.

Some girls want the hockey star. I want my mom out of that trunk. I glance around for Brody. Where the fuck is he?