24. Riggs
Riggs
M y alarm screams at me. I swat blindly at my phone, knocking it to the floor where it continues its digital death throes. Fucking hell.
Last night rushes back in technicolor horror. The way his eyes bulged as the knife slid in, Maren's body against the wall, the blood on my hands that I scrubbed raw in the shower when I finally made it home.
I killed a man.
The thought should break me, but all I feel is a dull throbbing behind my eyes from too little sleep. I fumble for my phone, squinting at the screen. Half past seven in the morning. Practice starts at eight.
I've got three missed calls from Coach Calloway and a text that just tells me this is my last chance.
A year ago, that message would have sent me into a panic spiral. My scholarship, my future, my whole fucking identity on the line. Now? I stare at it with the emotional investment of someone reading a cereal box.
Funny how stabbing a guy in the throat puts shit in perspective.
I drag myself upright, wincing as my muscles protest. My shoulders are a mess of scratches and bite marks. The mirror reveals bruises blooming along my neck and collarbone—Maren's handiwork. I prod at one particularly dark mark and feel a sick thrill run through me.
My phone buzzes.
My Nightmare
Are you dead?
Still breathing, nightmare. You?
Alive unfortunately, but still pissed.
I snort. Of course she is.
Practice in 40. Talk later?
No.
Maybe.
Don't track me again or I'll gut you.
I shouldn't find that hot. The fact that I do confirms I'm completely fucked in the head now.
Yes, ma'am
She doesn't respond, but I know she's read it. I can picture her scowling at her phone, hair a mess, maybe still naked in bed. The image makes my cock stir despite my exhaustion.
I shove my phone in my pocket and grab my gear bag, wincing at the weight. Every muscle in my body aches—from the sex, from the violence, from carrying the body to the dumpster two blocks away while Maren kept lookout.
The walk to the rink is a blur. My mind keeps replaying his final moments in sick, slow motion, the way his eyes bulged, the gurgling sound he made.
It's almost funny. I'm on the verge of losing everything I spent years building, and all I can think about is whether Maren's bruises from my fingers have bloomed on her hips yet.
The locker room is empty when I arrive. Perfect. I strip down and change into my gear.
I'm on the ice fifteen minutes early, the blade of my skates cutting through the fresh surface with a satisfying hiss.
The rink is silent except for the sound of my movement—the scrape of ice, the whistle of air as I pick up speed.
I push myself into a series of sprints, edge work that would normally burn my thighs after the third repetition. Today, I barely feel it.
My stick slaps against the ice as I weave through imaginary defenders.
A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. Coach is standing at the boards, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. I pretend not to notice, but I can feel his eyes tracking me as I execute a tight turn that would have sent me sprawling yesterday.
“Rhodes,” he calls out finally. “My office after practice.”
I acknowledge him with a curt nod, not slowing down.
The doors to the rink bang open as my teammates start filing in. Murphy's the first on the ice, eyebrows shooting up when he sees me already drenched in sweat.
“The fuck, Rhodes? You sleep here or something?” he asks, skating over.
“Just motivated,” I answer, shooting the puck into the empty net with more force than necessary.
“Yeah? That why you've been dodging my texts? Motivation?”
I turn to face him, something cold settling in my chest. “Got better things to do than babysit your sorry ass through calc, Murph.”
“Whatever, man,” he mutters, skating away as more guys hit the ice.
Coach blows his whistle, and we gather around for drills.
“Line drills, let's move!” Coach bellows, and the team groans in unison. I don't make a sound, just push off the ice and position myself at the front.
“First group! Rhodes, Martinez, Jenkins, Perkins!”
I launch forward before Coach's whistle even hits his lips, my skates digging deep, spraying ice as I accelerate.
I can feel the others struggling to keep pace, their heavy breathing at my back like distant white noise.
I hit the far blue line and pivot, cutting back so sharply that Martinez has to swerve to avoid collision.
“Jesus Christ, Rhodes!” he spits, but I'm already halfway back, leaving them in my wake.
Coach doesn't say anything, just tracks me with narrowed eyes as I finish the drill five strides ahead of everyone else.
“Again!” he barks, and I'm off, muscles burning in a way that feels good, cleansing.
By the third repetition, Perkins is bent over, hands on knees, gasping. “Slow the fuck down, man,” he wheezes when I skate past. “It's practice, not the Olympics.”
I slam to a stop, showering him with ice. “If you can't keep up, maybe you should sit the fuck down.”
His face goes slack with surprise, then hardens. “What's your problem today?”
“My problem is carrying dead weight,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. The rink goes quiet.
Coach steps between us. “Rhodes, take a lap. Cool off.”
I don't argue, just push away and circle the rink, aware of the eyes following me.
When I rejoin the group, we break into scrimmage teams. Red versus white. Coach puts me on red with Murphy, Diaz, Wilson, and Smith. I take my position at center, facing off against Sanderson.
“Ready to get your ass handed to you?” he smirks, adjusting his grip on his stick.
I don't answer, just lock eyes with him until his smile falters. When Coach drops the puck, I don't just win the face-off—I drive my shoulder into Sanderson's chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.
“Fuck!” he shouts as I take possession, already driving toward their goal.
I don't slow down. The goal is in my sights, and I deke around Perkins like he's standing still, then fire the puck past our goalie's glove. It slams into the back of the net with a satisfying thwack.
“The fuck got into you?” Perkins pants, staring at me like I've grown a second head.
I just tap my stick against his shin pads and skate back to position. “Maybe you're just getting slower.”
Coach blows his whistle again. “Again! And someone fucking check Rhodes this time!”
They try. God, they try. Martinez comes at me with his shoulder lowered, and I spin away at the last second, sending him crashing into the boards. Williams tries to pin me against the glass, but I slip through his grasp like water, leaving him cursing.
“Stop dancing and play some fucking hockey!” I bark at Murphy when he hesitates with the puck. I'm on him in an instant, stealing it and sending him sprawling with a check that's just on the edge of clean.
“What the hell, man?” he spits, scrambling to his feet. “We're on the same fucking team!”
“Then keep up,” I snarl, already halfway down the ice.
I can feel them all watching me, confusion and irritation rolling off them in waves.
I score four more times before Coach calls a water break. The other guys give me a wide berth as they skate to the bench, muttering under their breath.
“Rhodes,” Coach says, his voice low as I gulp down water. “Whatever you're on, dial it back before someone gets hurt.”
I meet his eyes, wiping sweat from my brow. “Not on anything, Coach. Just focused.”
When we resume, he puts me against our top defensive line. “Let's see how focused you really are, Rhodes.”
I smile, feeling the stretch of my lips like it belongs to someone else.
The rest of practice is a bloodbath. I play like I've got nothing to lose, because honestly, what's a broken bone compared to a man's life? What's a penalty compared to the weight of a body being dragged across wet pavement? Nothing matters except the ice beneath my skates and the puck on my stick.
The locker room is quiet afterward. Guys who've known me for years are giving me sideways looks, keeping their distance. I can feel their eyes on the bruises on my neck as I strip down for the shower, but no one has the balls to ask.
“Rhodes.” Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. “Office. Now.”
I follow him down the corridor, past the trophy cases filled with championships from decades past. His office smells like coffee and old equipment—a scent that used to feel like home.
“Sit,” he orders, closing the door behind us.
I remain standing.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn't push it. “What the hell was that out there?”
“Good hockey,” I answer flatly.
“Good hockey?” Coach laughs, but there's no humor in it. He slams his hand down on his desk hard enough to make his coffee mug jump. “You call that good fucking hockey? That wasn't hockey, Rhodes. That was a goddamn one-man demolition derby.”
I shrug, leaning against the wall. “Got results, didn't I?”
“Results?” His face is turning an interesting shade of purple. “You think hockey is just about scoring? You alienated every teammate out there. Hockey's a team sport, and you were being selfish out there.”
“They're too slow?—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Coach's voice drops to the kind of quiet that used to make me straighten up. Now it just washes over me like white noise. “I've seen you play for three years and coached you for half of that. I know what you can do. This isn't it. This is something else.”
“I'm playing better than I ever have,” I counter.
“You're playing like you don't give a shit if you hurt someone.”
That hits closer to home than I'd like. I glance away.
“Look at me, Rhodes.” He waits until I do. “I don't know what the fuck has gotten into you lately, but I'm gonna need you to take a test.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
He pulls open his desk drawer and slaps a plastic cup onto the desk between us. “Standard procedure. You know the drill.”
“You think I'm on something?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “That's bullshit.”
“Is it? Because the Riggs Rhodes I know doesn't go from a team player to whatever the hell I just saw out there overnight.” Coach crosses his arms. “Unless you've got something to hide?”
“Fuck you,” I spit, but I snatch the cup off his desk. I know I've got nothing to hide—at least not chemically. My vices run darker than pills or powder.
I stride into the attached bathroom, leaving the door wide open. Let him watch if he's so fucking concerned. I unzip, aim, and fill the cup to the line, not bothering to be neat about it.
“Can I go wash my ass now?” I ask, setting the cup on the edge of his desk with more force than necessary.
Coach's eyes are cold as he seals the sample. “You're dismissed. But listen to me carefully, Rhodes. You better keep your nose fucking clean, your anger in check, and get a fucking attitude adjustment, or you're out of here. I don't care how many goals you score.”
I turn to leave, hand on the doorknob when he adds, “And Rhodes? Those marks on your neck—whoever she is, she's bad news.”
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere dark inside me. If only he knew.
“Thanks for the advice, Coach,” I say, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on.