5. Chapter 5
Atlas
Shaw and Rua come off the blue line flying, crossing lanes like they’re trying to make the rest of the team look bad. Rua’s got the puck, Shaw’s wide, and my job is simple—hold middle ice, match Rua’s speed, keep the gap tight, don’t let him cut inside.
Should be easy.
Except my left eye blurs at the worst possible second, and the gap stays open half a beat too long. Rua cuts back into the slot, and I’m reaching, my stick out of position, already beaten.
While Hunter stays with Shaw, Coach Byfield blows his whistle before Rua gets to the net. “That's the third lane you've given up. Get your fucking ass in gear before you start the season on the bench.”
“Copy, Coach.” I blink hard and rip off my glove to scrub at my eye. “Fucking hell.”
Rua glides past during the reset. “Three blown coverages in one drill. That's not a rough morning. That’s a performance . Should I be concerned? Or are you saving the good shit for the game?”
“My eyes are fucked up.”
“Uh-huh.” He taps my shin pad with his stick. “And here I thought you just couldn't handle my speed.”
I give him the finger as he skates off.
“You’re going to the doctor after practice,” Hunter says.
Here we go again. I don’t bother looking at him as we skate back in line. “Already told you they’re fine . The cold is just irritating.”
“Doctor.”
“Couple more days and—”
He spins, pinning me against the boards, eyes narrowed.
I huff. “Fine. Whatever.”
Hunter grunts, then watches the next rotation, tracking the forwards before the drill even starts.
Un-fucking-believable.
I shove my hand back into my glove, grinding my molars.
Two days. Two fucking days he’s been on my ass about my eyes, slapping my hand away every time I rub them. But the motherfucker doesn’t say a word about what happened in the woods. Acts like it was nothing.
Maybe it wasn’t for him. But he should have known it was different for me.
I swallow hard, shaking the thought away.
Everyone else walks around wanting people like it's easy. Like their bodies just work. See someone hot, get turned on. Simple. Normal. The way it's supposed to be.
Mine doesn't do that. Never has. Girls, guys, it doesn't matter how good they look.
I see them. Appreciate them the same way I do a nice car or a sick hit.
But my body stays offline. Sits there like a dead engine as the rest of the world is out there fucking and flirting while I'm wondering what's wrong with me.
Except with Hunter.
He’s the only person who's ever made my engine turn over.
Five years. One person.
I stopped trying to figure out why because the answer doesn't change anything. Hunter doesn't want me like that. He’s made it clear. So I take what I can get, and I keep my mouth shut. Jerk off alone in the dark like a fucking ghost haunting my own life.
Then Jenkins showed up at the Pine Barrens. That night, my cock got so hard it hurt.
I’ve dropped that little shit, pinned him, fisted his jersey while he spat blood and swung at me countless times last year. My body never gave a damn.
So what the fuck was different about Saturday?
A violent crack explodes near my head, so sharp my ears ring and my teeth rattle. I recoil, throwing my hand over my ear. “Jesus!”
“My bad!” Shaw waves his stick in the air, cackling like a psycho with that too-wide grin.
“Like sixty-forty, my bad. Maybe seventy-three.
Wait, that's not—seventy-thirty. Fuck. Math is not the point.
The point is that I didn't mean to. Okay, I meant to, but only because you were staring off like you were watching head movies.”
I huff. “You mean daydreaming.”
“Duh. That’s what I said.”
Coach Byfield crosses his arms. “When are you clowns going to grow the fuck up? Trembley, Kincaid, get your asses back out there. I want proper angling this time. Not next month. Not next week. Now .”
Hunter and I get into position as Cap and a freshman line up on the far blue line. The whistle blows, and they cross lanes, the freshman taking the puck wide while Cap drives middle.
The freshman is fast, I'll give him that. But fast doesn't mean smart, and he telegraphs his cut a full second before he commits. I close the gap, match his speed, then drive my shoulder through his chest so hard his skates leave the ice.
Finally.
I smile, skating away.
“Nice.” Hunter taps his stick against my calves.
Cap skates up beside us, eyes on the freshman dragging himself back to his feet. “He’ll think before he cuts inside again.”
I snort.
Cap turns to us. “You two handle the Titan problem this weekend?”
Hunter grunts. “We took care of it.”
My grip tightens on the shaft of my stick.
Five words.
That's what Saturday night gets. Five fucking words and a tone so flat you'd think we chased off a raccoon.
The corner of Cap’s mouth lifts. “So, he shouldn’t be a problem next week.”
My body tenses. So does Hunter’s. And while his expression doesn’t change, the air around him does. I’ve spent enough time with him learning what those shifts mean.
I slow, then cut to the left and slide between them. “Jenkins will be on the ice, running his fucking mouth like he always does.”
Cap spins, skating backward. “What was he doing out there anyway?”
I stare at him, then bark out a laugh. “Think you were fucking his girlfriend.”
“Tú me tienes que estar jodiendo!”
Cap doesn’t say anything else, just shakes his head and skates off. Hunter and I head to the back of our line. He’s too quiet, too tense, too focused on the current rotation doing the drill.
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “You good, or no?”
“Yeah.”
Lie.
We might be fucked up, might need a bloody outlet on occasion, but it’s always justified. Hunter doesn’t want to be like his father. Rival or not, Jenkins hasn’t done anything that deserved more than what happened out there.
I lean closer. “Cap was just talking shit.”
Hunter doesn’t respond.
“We didn’t seriously hurt him. Sure, we kicked his ass a bit, but he gave it right back. As usual. And my eyes are fucked up from the dirt.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Fucking asshole. It’s not funny.”
“Go to the doctor. Won’t tell you again.”
I plaster on a wide grin, tilting my head. “And if I don’t?”
He finally looks at me, leaning in to press his forehead to mine. “Then I’ll fucking drag you there.”
Electricity zings down my spine and straight to my cock. I swallow hard and turn away from Hunter just as one of the third line forwards drives the net.
Shin's glove flicks up and the puck disappears into the leather. He tosses it back onto the ice, then rolls his neck.
“Hayashi! You're cheating off your angle again. One of these days, a shooter's going to make you pay for it.”
Shin gives his back to Coach Sawchuk, lifts his helmet, grabs the bottle resting on top of the net, then squirts water into his mouth.
“Are you listening to me?”
He stares at her, pink hair matted to his forehead. “I caught it.”
“That's not the point—”
“Mmm.” He drops the puck, lowers his helmet, and settles into his stance. “Let me know when you have feedback worth my time.”
Coach Sawchuk mumbles to herself. One day, she's going to strangle him with that whistle lanyard, and I'm buying front row seats.
We run the drill a few more times. By the fourth time, we’re back out. Hunter and I shut down every pair that comes at us, and Coach Byfield has moved on to yelling at someone else.
Progress.
Coach blows the whistle. Thank God practice is over, but how the hell am I going to concentrate in class when my eyes are still stinging and watering?
Hunter was right about the fucking doctor. Not that I'll tell him that.
Rua pulls up alongside us. “Getting tickets for the Rangers vs. Devils game in December. You two in?”
Coach Reed huffs.
Rua waggles his brows at him. “Aw, do you want to sit with us?”
I snicker. “Let him sit with his own friends. But I’m in. No way I’m missing the Petrov vs. Blackwell showdown.”
Shaw arrives with that bright, wrong-edged laugh of his already spilling out.
“I think about Petrov sometimes. Like, how much force do you think it would take to knock him down now? See how big he got.” He looks at me, waggling his brows.
“I kind of want to try it. There's a fifty-fifty chance he'd try to kill me. Honestly, that sounds fun.”
Cap steers him off the ice by the back of the neck. “Stop being a dick.”
“I'm being friendly —”
I shake my head. “He’s a fucking maniac.”
Rua snorts, then stretches his arms up. “Next week should be fun. Think Walsh told Henneman about Miami?”
Coach Reed shakes his head. “Maybe worry less about my friends and more about your teammates.” He looks right at me. “Think you can stay out of the penalty box?”
I snort. “Fat chance.”
He quirks a brow. “So, you enjoy fighting certain players more than playing hockey?”
“Yeah, well, I owe him.” If they think I’m letting Jenkins skate around next week after what he did to my eyes, they’re out of their fucking minds.
Jenkins will be lucky if he gets off the ice in one piece.