12. Riggs #2
Time slows. The crowd noise fades to a dull roar. I can see the goalie's eyes widen behind his mask as he drops into butterfly. He's favoring his right side—just like we studied on film. I fake a shot, watching him commit, then pull the puck to my backhand and lift it over his outstretched glove.
Top shelf. Where mama hides the cookies.
The red light flashes. The crowd erupts. My teammates crash into me, thumping my back, screaming in my ear. Forty-two seconds into the first period, and we're up one-zero.
Coach nods approvingly as I hit the bench, gulping water and trying to slow my racing heart.
“Fucking beauty!” Coach bellows. “Now do it again!”
The adrenaline high from scoring doesn't last long. By the second period, my lungs are burning, legs heavy as concrete. St. Andrews adjusted their defense after my goal, clogging the neutral zone, forcing us to dump and chase. We're still up, but they're pressing hard.
“Rhodes, Keller, Martinez, you're up!” Coach barks as I gulp down water on the bench.
I hop over the boards, my skates hitting the ice with that satisfying crunch. The crowd roars like they always do when I take the ice.
Their captain, Prescott, has been chirping all night, getting increasingly desperate as the clock ticks down. He's a draft prospect like me, both of us fighting for position in the rankings.
The puck ricochets to the corner, and I'm after it like a heat-seeking missile, throwing my body into St. Andrews winger. We crash into the boards with a sound like a car accident.
The puck clears the zone, buying us a line change. I'm about to head to the bench when I hear Prescott's voice, low and taunting.
“You playing hard for Bloody Mary tonight, Rhodes? Hear she likes it rough.”
My stride breaks. My head snaps around so fast I almost give myself whiplash. “The fuck did you just say?”
Prescott smirks, skating backward. “You heard me. Everyone knows she's making the rounds with the team. Figure I'll get my turn after we win tonight.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. Everything—the crowd, the game, the score—it all vanishes. There's just Prescott's smug face and the roaring in my ears, like I'm underwater.
“Say her name again,” I dare him, my voice so quiet I barely recognize it. “I fucking dare you.”
Prescott's eyes gleam with the knowledge he's found my trigger. “What, Bloody Mary? That's what everyone calls her, right? For all the?—”
I don't remember dropping my gloves. Don't remember crossing the ten feet of ice between us. One second I'm listening to him talk about Maren like she's some locker room conquest, and the next my fist is connecting with his jaw, the satisfying crunch of bone against bone vibrating up my arm.
Prescott goes down hard, but recovers fast, springing up with his gloves already off. The refs are blowing whistles, but neither of us gives a shit. This isn't hockey anymore. This is primal.
“You're fucking crazy,” he spits, blood spraying from his split lip.
I don't answer. Just launch myself at him again, grabbing fistfuls of his jersey. My knuckles find his face—once, twice, three times—before he manages to land a counter that snaps my head back. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, but it just fuels the fire raging inside me.
We're grappling now, spinning across the ice like some demented dance, the crowd on their feet, howling for blood. I can hear Coach screaming from the bench, but his words don't register. Nothing registers except the need to hurt this motherfucker who dared speak my girl’s fucking name.
Prescott lands a solid right that makes my vision blur.
I taste copper, feel hot blood trickling from my nose, but I'm beyond caring.
I drive my fist into his ribs, feeling something give way beneath my knuckles.
He gasps momentarily stunned, and I seize the advantage, raining down blows until his face is a mess of blood and spit.
They finally manage to separate us, though it takes three of them to pry me off. I'm still lunging against their restraint, blind with rage, when the ref skates over.
“You're done, Rhodes,” he says, face grim.
I'm still seeing red as they escort me off the ice, officials on either side like I'm a fucking criminal.
My jersey's half-ripped off, blood dripping from my knuckles, leaving tiny crimson splatters on the ice.
The crowd is going absolutely apeshit—most of them cheering, a few booing—but it all sounds like white noise through the pounding in my ears.
Coach is purple-faced at the bench, screaming something about “losing your fucking mind” and “championship season,” but I can't bring myself to care. Not when Prescott's words are still echoing in my head. Bloody Mary. Making the rounds.
The penalty box is too good for me. I've earned a game misconduct, maybe a suspension. Five minutes for fighting, another two for instigating, and a ten-minute misconduct that'll keep me out until the third period at least. If Coach even lets me back on the ice.
“Straight to the locker room, Rhodes,” the ref barks, pointing toward the tunnel. “You're most likely done for the night.”
I spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice, not bothering to argue.
The crowd noise fades as I stomp down the tunnel, my skate guards making hollow plastic clicks against the concrete.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, sweat pouring down my face, mixing with blood from the cut on my cheek.
My knuckles throb, raw and split open. Coach is going to crucify me for this.
The scouts in the stands are probably already crossing my name off their lists.
And I can't bring myself to give a single fuck.
Because there she is.
Standing in the shadows of the tunnel like she materialized from my darkest thoughts.
Maren. The St. James cheerleading uniform a splash of crimson, white and black against the concrete walls, a blood-red ribbon holding her dark ponytail high and tight.
But it's the #13 painted on her cheek in black that stops me dead in my tracks.
My number. She's wearing my fucking number.
She's leaning against the wall, one leg bent with her foot pressed flat against the concrete, arms crossed over her chest. Watching me with eyes that see straight through my bullshit.
“Guess I missed the memo about tonight being UFC night instead of hockey,” she says, voice low and amused.
I slow my pace, heart hammering in my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with the fight or the game. The tunnel suddenly feels too small, too hot, too everything with her in it.
“What the fuck are you doing back here?” I demand, my voice still rough from screaming on the ice.
Maren shrugs, a lazy lift of one shoulder that somehow manages to be both dismissive and seductive at the same time. “Waiting for you.”
The simplicity of her answer knocks the wind out of me harder than any check into the boards.
She pushes off the wall with a fluid grace that makes my mouth go dry. The cheerleading uniform hugs every curve of her body, the pleated skirt swishing against her thighs as she takes a step toward me. My number on her cheek looks like a brand, a claim, a warning.
“You know, I've watched you play sixteen times now,” she says, voice pitched low enough that I have to strain to hear it over the distant roar of the crowd. “But I've never seen you lose control like that before.”
She reaches out, not quite touching me, her fingers hovering over the split in my cheek.
“What did he say to you?” she asks, and her voice has that dangerous edge I recognize. “Must have been something special to make Captain Golden Boy snap like that.”
“It doesn't matter,” I mutter, flexing my fingers, feeling the sting as fresh blood seeps from the cuts.
“Liar.” She steps closer, close enough now that I can smell her. “Was it about me?”
The question hangs between us, and I know my silence is answer enough. Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
“You like the violence, don't you?” she says, and it's not really a question. Her gaze drops to my hands, to the blood drying between my fingers. “The way it feels to lose control. To hurt someone who deserves it.”
My breath catches in my throat before I play this little game with her.
“And you like watching,” I counter, voice rough. It's not a question either.
She doesn't deny it. Just tilts her head slightly, studying me like I'm some kind of fascinating science experiment gone wrong. “I like watching you,” she corrects. “There's a difference.”
She reaches up, her fingertips hovering just above the cut on my cheek. Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. “He call me Bloody Mary?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My hands are shaking. Whether from the fight or her proximity, I can't tell anymore.
“And you just…what? Lost your mind?” There's something in her voice I can't place. Not mockery, not exactly. Something softer. Wondering.
“He said you were making the rounds with the team,” I say, the words like acid in my mouth. “Said he was gonna get his turn after they won tonight.”
Maren scoffs, a sharp sound that echoes against the tunnel walls. Then she actually laughs—a rare, wild sound that makes my chest tighten. Her head tilts back, exposing the pale column of her throat, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.
“As if I would touch any of the fucking hockey team,” she says when her laughter subsides, eyes glittering with amusement. “What do they think I am—desperate?”
She steps closer, close enough that I can count her eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of silver in her irises. “Well, anyone but you, huh, Riggs?” Her voice drops to a whisper, intimate and mocking all at once. “Wouldn't want to call myself a hypocrite.”
“Why are you here, Maren?” I ask, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. “You hate hockey.”
“I hate most things,” she corrects, that half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “But I don't hate watching you lose control. Don't hate watching you bleed.” Her gaze drops to my hands, to the crimson smeared across my knuckles. “You know what they say about blood, Riggs?”
I shake my head, mesmerized by the way her lips form each word.
“It always tells the truth.” She reaches out and takes my hand, turning it to examine the damage.
She's holding my hand, her finger now making slow circles against my palm. It's such a small point of contact, but it's burning through me.
“You should go be the golden boy now,” Maren says, releasing my hand. The loss of contact is physical, like someone ripped a bandage off too quickly. “Go wait in the locker room 'til Coach Calloway dismisses you.”
She takes a step back, and I feel myself sway forward, like there's an invisible thread connecting us that pulls taut when she moves away.
“And if I don't want to be the golden boy?” The words escape before I can stop them, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. Like I've finally said the right thing on a test I didn't know I was taking.
“If you wanna be a little bit bad,” she says, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my stomach clench, “come see me.”
Before I can react, she's suddenly in my space again, rising on her tiptoes.
Her hand finds my chest, steadying herself as she leans in.
I think she's going to kiss me. I want her to kiss me with a desperation that scares the shit out of me.
Instead, she tilts her head and drags her tongue slowly up my cheek, tasting the blood on my face.
Then she's gone, pulling away with a smile that's all teeth and secrets.
“Catch you later, captain,” she whispers, her lips glistening from her lip gloss.
And just like that, she turns and skips away—actually fucking skips—her skirt fluttering with each bounce, ponytail swinging like a pendulum. Maren Marino, the girl who emits danger like a radiation leak, skipping down the concrete tunnel like some twisted parody of innocence.
“Maren!” I call after her, my voice echoing off the walls. “Where the fuck are you going?”
She doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just raises one hand in a backward wave without turning around, middle finger extended in a casual fuck-you that somehow feels like an invitation.
“Maren!” I try again, louder this time. My voice bounces back at me, mocking as I watch her exit the arena.
She’s a goddamn nightmare.