Pucking Obsessed (Bay Rebels #4)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rebel Arena, Freedom

R obyn

“Don’t score. Don’t score. Don’t score…” Eden mutters.

Eden is leaning on the glass around the rink, thrumming with anxiety.

He looks like he wishes he could jump onto the ice and support the team, even dressed in his smart suit and long woolen coat.

He’s squinting against the bright light. He must have a headache but he hasn’t complained. His entire focus is centered on the ice and the fucking carnage of our men’s careers.

“Anti-chants aren’t really a thing.” I wring my hands together in my warm gloves, pacing the side of the rink. “Although, at this stage, cursing the Nashville Predators may be our only chance of winning.”

I’m wearing a woolen fuchsia dress, along with my warmest coat, gloves, and sturdy boots.

The other team truly are predators, but it’s surprised me that the Bay Rebels are acting like prey.

The game has been fast, violent, and brutal.

It’s like ballet danced by killers.

Eden grits his teeth. “I’ll try.”

He narrows his eyes at the captain of the Predators, as if he’s silently casting a curse on him.

I don’t stop him. It can’t hurt to try, right?

The game is a disaster.

How has it gone this wrong?

It’s the first game out of three this week — the three that D’Angelo should be using to showcase his talent.

He’s fighting for his life.

The Bay Rebels must win.

There’s only ten minutes left, however, and the predators have scored twice, while even our usual top scorer, Shay, hasn’t scored once.

Shay looked drained and exhausted the moment that he stepped onto the ice.

Colton’s extreme practice techniques have backfired and slowed down the star player.

But what’s wrong with D’Angelo? He’s seriously off.

The crowd is more muted than normal. They can tell that something is wrong with their team.

I ignore the chatter of the commentator and the bank of journalists and photographers from the press.

The cold bites my cheeks.

Normally, despite the pressure, I’m buzzing with excitement at a game. This time, however, I’m chilled to the bone with dread.

There’s something in the air.

Everybody can sense it. The Bay Rebels’ rivals are using it to go for the kill.

“Come on.” Eden slams his hand against the glass like Shay can hear him.

I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat just for a moment to brush over the angel wing shell that Eden gave to me at the beach house like a lucky charm.

Players are superstitious. Why can’t I be?

D’Angelo passes Shay the puck. Shay skates toward the goal with the first real determination in the game.

I hold my breath.

Please.

The crowd are on their feet, cheering.

D’Angelo needs this goal.

Even if the team lose, it can’t look like it happened because of his bad leadership.

I glance toward my right.

Dad is standing by the benches to get the best vantage point and view. He’s dressed in a smart black suit with the team’s official tie.

He’s animated, shouting at the players. He’s red faced and waving his arms.

I’ve never seen him this furious in public.

My shoulders tense with nerves, when I study the entire board and other senior members of staff flanking him.

Lee, Kates, and Stansfield look grim.

Yet Bronwyn is smirking.

The asshole.

Then my gaze is drawn unwillingly to the sociopathic jerk who started all of this: Heine.

He’s the one who created the bet that D’Angelo must win two out of three of these games, otherwise he’ll have to resign his captaincy.

Yet Heine is sprawled on the bench, flicking his wavy, honey blond hair casually over his shoulder like this is a relaxing outing for him.

He looks out of place amongst the much older men and women dressed in stuffy suits. His skull designer t-shirt is artfully ripped to reveal just a glimpse of one nipple and a sliver of his pale stomach.

Heine stiffens, when he notices that I’m watching him.

He turns to meet my gaze. The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Heine looks like an angel, but his eyes are as cold as a devil’s.

I quickly look away, shuddering.

I hate that so many people are here hoping that D’Angelo fails.

I don’t know how to help him.

I ball my hands into fists.

“Focus.” Eden keeps his intense gaze fixed on his twin.

For the first time in the game, Shay is skating toward the goal with his normal level of energy.

He looks dangerous.

I rock on my heels, hugging my arms around myself.

My English ice prince can do this.

He has to.

“Score,” I whisper. “Fucking score.”

The crowd are on their feet.

But then, I wince, when two defenseman, who are both twice Shay’s size, come up on either side of him.

I scan the ice for D’Angelo.

Where the fuck is he? Why isn’t he supporting Shay?

D’Angelo appears lost in his own world. He isn’t present in the game. It’s like he’s playing through a fog.

“Shit.” I watch horrified as the players body check Shay at the same time.

My heart is beating fast. I’m shaking with adrenaline.

Shay twists with expert skill, stopping the rival players from taking the puck. Then to my shock, before he can pull his stick back and take the shot, the right defenseman dives in front of Shay.

And trips him.

The right defenseman makes it look like an accidental clash, but it’s obvious strategy.

I wince, when Shay crashes to the floor. He’s going to be bruised. He’ll need an ice bath to help with his recovery. Then this will be another night of rubbing arnica cream into his purple skin.

Are his ribs okay?

I bite my lip, moving as close to Eden as I can. I need the reassuring feel of him at my shoulder.

Eden drops his gloved hand from the glass, brushing it against mine as much as he can risk in front of journalists.

Eden’s eyes are molten with rage. He glances at the referee, but the referee doesn’t stop the game.

Why isn’t the referee calling a penalty?

These Predators are getting away with their attack.

Their bearded left defenseman scoops up the puck and passes to their center, as D’Angelo skates toward Shay as fast as he can.

But it’s too late.

The Predators are on the counterattack.

They’re going to score.

Heine claps. “This game isn’t as boring as I thought it’d be.”

Eden turns like he’s about to storm over and beat the shit out of the team’s billionaire owner for applauding the attack on his twin.

I thought that this game couldn’t become any more of a PR nightmare.

Shows me.

My pulse races. “Hey, ignore the evil imp. Look, Shay’s getting up. He’s okay.”

“Jude isn’t.”

My lips pinch. “He hasn’t been since yesterday.”

“Since before that.” Eden cocks his head. “When you came back from that meeting with coach and the board, he was different.”

I furrow my brow. “How?”

“More like me. Surviving and not living.”

My stomach flips.

I grip the sleeve of Eden’s coat. “Hiding something he’s not ready to talk about…?”

“Processing.”

I swallow. “There was another one of the psycho’s gifts in the costume shop. It was a Lucifer outfit with a command for D’Angelo to wear it.”

“They’re acting like Jude is their doll to dress up. They don’t own him .”

Eden’s expression is closed off in the same way that D’Angelo’s was for the entire silent drive back from 1001 Fantasies.

Processing.

I get it.

“I don’t think that it’s Vega,” I say. “The way that D’Angelo reacted made it feel far more personal. Plus, how he’s been thrown off his game today.”

“So, who is it?”

I shake my head. “Someone who is truly fucking up our lives.”

I flinch but don’t look around as I hear the Predators score behind me.

The Bay Rebels are going to lose.

One game down.

For D’Angelo to win the bet, he’ll have to win the next two games.

The pressure is intense.

If we don’t work out who is messing with D’Angelo’s head and stop them, then we’re going to lose everything.