Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EVERETT
N ot gonna lie. I’ve been waiting for this. For this moment. When I can beat the shit out of Drake under the guise of a hockey game. Without pissing off the police or messing with Dylan’s investigation.
Just me and him on the ice.
No bullshit.
Only retribution.
It’s funny. Hearing my Aunt Mia and Uncle Henry’s account of the guy who used to beat the shit out of her when she attended LAU. His name was Shorty. Fitting since only a guy who’s small would choose to beat the shit out of a woman. Drake’s small, too. Maybe not literally—Shorty wasn’t, either—but small all the same.
Rolling my shoulders, I head to the blue line as the crowd chants around us. It’ll be even sweeter this way. Beating the shit out of Drake on his own ice. Proving he’s the lesser man in front of his biggest fans.
I can’t. Fucking. Wait.
Looking up at the stands, I search the crowd for Raine and my parents. When I find them, my brows dip. Raine looks nervous. Did one of the fans do something to her? My mom’s beside her. She looks okay for now. I was worried when I came through the tunnel, and strobe lights were flashing. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Hell, maybe a thousand if you include Finley. I still remember when we were kids and how many times she seized until the doctors figured out the right dosage of her medication. Doesn’t erase the memories, though. My mom’s is worse. Or maybe it isn’t. Feels like it, though. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s because she’s my mom. She’s supposed to be strong and unbreakable. And yeah, to be fair, she’s definitely the most resilient person I’ve ever known. But watching her battle her seizures will never get easier. She looks all right, but if she has one here? On the fucking concrete or in the plastic seats? My hands shake, and my gut churns.
“Your dad’s got her,” Griffin calls out as if the bastard knows exactly what I’m thinking.
He's right.
My dad’s beside her. He knows her better than anyone. Has been able to read the signs, whenever he’s given any, better than her own doctors. Hell, better than my mom herself. And she looks…fine for now.
She’ll be fine.
She’ll be fine.
She’ll be fine.
The sound of skates gliding against ice cuts through my spiraling thoughts as the referee approaches us.
Preparing for the game to start, I shake my head and squeeze the stick in my palms a little tighter.
Focus.
Reeves is on my right. Griffin on my left. Drake and the rest of his team skate into position. It’s a shame we can’t meet at the center line or face off since Drake’s a defender. I’m not too worried, though. We’ll have our time. His movements are slow as he skates into position, though I can feel his stare. Motherfucker probably feels like he’s on top of the world right now after the last time we saw each other. Joke’s on him. He didn’t play fair, and now it’s my turn to knock him down a peg or two. Leaning forward, I block him out and palm my stick, preparing for the ref to drop the puck and blow the whistle.
Three. Two. The puck slips from the ref’s fingers and falls to the ice. I slap it to my left toward a waiting Griffin and dodge the Grizzlies’ center. Charging around one of the defenders, I move into the pocket, stopping short. Ice sprays as I screech to a halt, turn, and prepare for the pass I know is coming. Like clockwork, Griffin chips it off the board, and I dribble it around the back of the net. From my periphery, I catch a flash of yellow.
Yeah, I see you.
Drake sprints toward me, thinking he’s caught me off guard, but I slap the puck through his spread skates where Griffin stands. With his stick wrenched back, he waits for the perfect moment, then slaps the puck into the corner of the net. The flight flashes red, and the siren wails.
One to nothing.
Fuck. Yes.
The Hawks whoop on the ice and at the bench, celebrating our first point, and, not gonna lie, it feels good. A huge part of me wanted to come out here and beat the shit out of Drake before the whistle even had a chance to blow. But winning like this? Embarrassing Drake on his own ice? It might even be sweeter than ending the night with split knuckles and Drake’s blood on my fists.
Then again, it’s still early. Anything can happen.
We go again, setting up for the next play. This time, the Grizzlies’ center steals the puck, but one of our defensemen manages to bat it away from him, recovering it and shooting it across the blue line. Reeves receives the pass, handling the puck like a seasoned pro as he spins around a Grizzlies’ defenseman, then slaps it my way. Drake’s close, but I manage to dodge him at the last second. He slams into the glass, causing an “Ooooh!” to echo throughout the arena as I pass the puck to Griffin, then turn around and wiggle my fingers in a toodle-oo motion. Yeah, I’m acting like a dick, but at this point, I don’t really give a fuck.
Drake’s face is red beneath his mask, and my grin widens before I get my head back in the game and try to help my teammates out. Then, like a fucking bull, Drake charges straight toward me. Clearly, he doesn’t give a shit about the penalty we both know he’ll face if he does what I think he’s going to, but if he’s game, so am I. With a heavy thump, the air whooshes out of my lungs as I’m pushed back, sliding on the ice and trying to keep my balance while fighting off the uppercut to my gut.
Apparently, Dickless didn’t like me toying with him.
“Don’t worry, asshole,” I say between grunts as he pins me to the boards and hits me over and over again. “I can embarrass you this way, too.”
Whistles blow around us as Drake throws off his gloves, and I do the same, ready to finally blow off the pent-up frustration that’s been building since the moment I saw Raine’s bruising. I dodge his right hook, land a jab to his nose, and wind up for a cross-hook combo. His head snaps back from the impact of my hits, but he recovers quickly and yanks me into a bear hug.
“You want your ass kicked again, Taylor?” he spits. “You’re lucky I didn’t break your fucking kneecap.”
When he connects another brutal uppercut, my abs scream in protest as I twist his jersey in my fist, hold him in place, and land a right hook to his eye.
“And you’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.” I wind up for another hit. A searing pain explodes across my knuckles, but his grunt is like music to my fucking ears. “Never been one to fight fair. Right, Haitt?”
I shove him away from me and prepare for another hit, only to be torn apart by the refs and my teammates. Like my head breaking through the water’s surface, whistling ensues, and the booing of the crowd finally registers as the referee drags us both to the penalty box.
It’s only the beginning.
Ninety-eight seconds later, Griffin scores again. Yeah, I’m counting. The red light glows behind the Grizzlies’ net, and the crowd boos again as Griffin skates around the rink with his glove raised in the air. With a grin, he moves past me in the sin bin, and I slam my hands against the glass, cheering him on. Seconds later, the Grizzlies take possession of the puck and dart toward our goalie, looking for blood. Keeping his stance low, Dreggs watches the Grizzlies’ left wing dribble the puck down the ice toward him. When the opponent winds up and slaps it into the left side of the net, anger surges through my veins.
Fuck.
So much for having a big lead. After the power play, the ref lets me out of the box, and I’m more than ready. Racing forward, I let the ice spray as I stop short at the blue line, anxious for the face-off again and scoring our team another point.
It takes a little while, but before the whistle blows ending the first period, we manage to do exactly that, putting the score at three to one.
The second period is uneventful, but by the third period, I’m ready to end this thing.
As I head toward the blue line, I catch Drake glaring at me. His mouth is swollen from earlier, and it makes me grin back at him. Yeah, he’ll be feeling it tomorrow. I crouch forward, preparing for the next play. When the puck slips from the ref’s fingers, I slap my stick against my opponent’s, then snap the puck off the boards, passing it to a waiting Reeves. In a flash, he dodges the Grizzlies’ defender, and I race toward the red line, trying to put myself in position. The puck flies through the defender’s legs, and I catch it just in time, dropping it into the bottom corner of the net.
The red light flashes, and I grin, skating toward the bench where Cameron waits to swap places. It feels good to be here. On the ice. The crowd booing. I hide my amusement as I bask in the sound. Little do they know, it only feeds my adrenaline and the high accompanying every fucking score. As I steal a drink of water, I catch Drake staring up at Raine in the stands with a smirk. It makes my blood boil. Just like that, my high disappears, and I want to kill him.
I want to tell him to stop looking at her. To stop noticing her. To stop proving she’s still on his radar despite his absence lately. It doesn’t matter that she’s sitting next to my family. That they’re trying to make her comfortable by talking to her. I can still see it. The way her spine is rigid. The way she’s chewing on her long black nails. The way her eyes keep darting around the arena.
“Get your head in the game,” Griffin grits out beside me.
Where the hell did he come from?
I tear my attention from the asshole across the ice and look at my best friend. “It is in the game.”
“Nah, it’s in the stands,” he argues. “Come on. We got this.”
He’s right. We do.
Rolling my shoulders, I watch the rest of my team on the ice until Coach puts me in again, and I move toward the blue line. Anxious to prove it. To prove we’ve got this game. To prove we’re better. Not just the Hawks, but me. I’m better. I deserve this. I deserve her .
Focus , I remind myself.
As soon as the puck drops from the ref’s fingers, I’m ready to slap it toward Griffin, but the Grizzlies’ center gets to it first. He hits it toward the Hawks’ side of the ice. One of our defenders intercepts and chips it off the board as I race into position, barely catching the pass. Left, right, left, right, I dribble down the side and find Drake in my periphery.
Yeah, I see you, asshole.
When I stop short, he slams into the glass as, “ Oof, ” echoes throughout the arena.
“That one’s gotta hurt,” the announcer adds.
He’s not wrong.
Frustrated, Drake pushes off the glass, but I’m already around him, moving toward the net as he races to catch up to me.
Not today, Drake.
I pass the puck to Reeves, then move toward the pocket as sweat slides down my temple.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I mutter under my breath. My gaze is glued to the black biscuit when I’m hit from behind. With a crack, my helmet hits the glass, and I blink the stars from my eyes, realizing I’m pinned between Drake and the slick barrier. It’s a dirty move, but I’m not sure why I’m surprised.
“How’d you like that?” Drake growls.
I spin around and shove him off me. My gloves are on the ground again, and all thought of the game, of being thrown out or what numbers are on the scoreboard, dissipates. I cock my arm back and deck him in the face, causing an explosion of pain to erupt in my knuckles, but I don’t stop. I keep hitting him over and over until the refs rip me away, and I flex my hands. Yeah. My knuckles are split, and fresh blood coats his jersey.
“You’re out!” the ref yells. “Both of you! ”
I look up at the scoreboard and grin. It’s four to one. Thirteen seconds left in the third period. We’ve got this game in the bag.
“Fine by me,” I answer. Turning to the bloodied Drake, I add, “Good game, Haitt.”
Then I look up at the stands, confirming my dad’s still seated next to my mom and Raine, and skate toward the locker room.