17. Chapter 17
Atlas
My shoulder catches UConn's winger square in the chest, and his skates leave the ice. He goes over the dasher, ass up, and into his own bench.
Clean hit.
Probably.
Not my fault he didn’t keep his head up. Not my fault I needed to hit something.
The ref's pointing somewhere, but I'm already skating away before he makes up his mind because fifteen seconds into the third period is too early to be in the box. Even I know that.
Usually, I'd circle back and drop a chirp.
Maybe congratulate him on his airborne technique because, honestly, he got some hang time on that one.
But today, I keep my mouth shut, jaw clenched.
Every white jersey out here might as well be that motherfucker from the picture with his lips wrapped around Jenkins.
Seriously, the fact that I've only been in the box once this entire game is a miracle. That dumbass holding penalty wasn't even my fault. Fucking Nakagawa was hugging my stick. On purpose.
Hunter glides in off my left shoulder without looking, close enough that the scrape of his blade is the only thing louder than the blood in my ears. His stick taps mine. Once.
“Easy.”
“Dude, I'm the picture of restraint. You don't even know.”
Except I’m not the picture of restraint. Haven’t been since Hunter’s phone chimed, and I saw some guy’s lips wrapped around Jenkins's dick. Then my body did something it has never once done for anyone who isn't Hunter . . . Lost its fucking mind.
Cap picks the puck up behind our net and wheels, buying a second. I drift along the blue, hold the point, and keep my feet moving. Rua swings low on the strong side, stick down, and Cap hits him on the wall.
He’s gone, cutting through the neutral zone with Shaw driving the far lane.
UConn’s D holds the blue. There’s no lane for him to carry, so Rua sends the puck deep.
I step down the wall. “Go! Go!”
Shaw gets there first, but their defenseman smokes him a half-second later and pins him. Rua crashes in, digs the puck out of their skates, and kicks it back up to me at the point.
I walk the line to change the angle. Their winger chases, reaching, but he’s a half-step behind.
“Screen! In his eyes!”
Shaw slides off the wall, plants himself at the top of the crease, shoulders squared to the goalie.
I spot a lane, shift my weight, and rip a low shot through Shaw’s legs.
The puck threads through the traffic, kisses off a UConn stick, and changes just enough. Their goalie drops late, glove flashing.
Too slow.
The puck beats him inside the post and rattles the back bar.
The horn blares a second later.
Shaw crashes into me, cackling and grabbing the top of my helmet with both hands. “How did you even see that? Are your eyes different from regular human eyes? I want to know. Tell me.”
I tap his helmet. “Lucky shot.”
He continues to laugh as I peel him off me and shove him toward the bench, following behind. Hunter glides over, and we tap gloves.
We hop over the boards, and I drop down beside him, his thigh pressed against mine. I grab a water bottle, squeezing it too hard, and half the liquid goes on my face instead of in my mouth. “He blocked us.”
Hunter grunts.
“Really? That’s it. Did you see the picture? Someone had their lips on him. There was cum. He fucking came from someone else sucking his dick.”
“I know.”
My knee bounces, eyes tracking the game but not seeing it. “You think it was some rando or one of his teammates? Because I swear, man, that whole team is like a fucking dating show. And now Jenkins is passing his dick around like a goddamn participation trophy.”
“Enough.”
“Nope. I’m going to find out who it was and surgically remove their lips from their face. I’ll let Shaw cut their tongue out. And then I’ll burn it all and piss on it to put the fire out.”
My pulse kicks harder.
I want to find the guy. I want to know what he looks like, then I’ll make sure he doesn't look like that anymore. And I want Jenkins to watch when it happens, so he understands exactly who he belongs to.
Hunter’s hand rests on my knee, and he squeezes. “They’ll be back from Boston tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“We’ll pay him a visit.”
Yeah, we will.
“Trembley. Kincaid. You’re up,” Coach Reed barks.
We hop over the boards, and I'm back on the ice with the third line.
Offensive-zone draw, which honestly is exactly what I need right now.
If Cap wins this back, it's coming to me at the point, and all I have to do is catch it, drag it, and rip it.
No overthinking. Just shoot the puck and stop seeing that fucking photo every time I blink.
I take my spot on the blue, toes over the line, eyes on the circle. Their weak-side winger is already cheating high, stick half turned toward the other end like he's planning his breakout before the puck even drops.
Yeah, okay, dude. Good luck with that.
UConn wins possession and pulls the puck behind their net. The defenseman wheels weak side, hits their center low, and swings up and out through the neutral zone.
“Middle!” I back off the blue, tracking their winger as he cuts inside.
Hunter steps up at the red line and just fucking detonates the guy. Shoulder first, full speed, no hesitation. Their winger sprawls across the center ice logo and slides on his back.
Shit.
Their bench jumps up screaming. The ref's arm twitches halfway up, then lowers. He skates straight at Hunter instead.
“Hey, twenty-two.” He jabs a finger at Hunter's chest. “You ride that line again, you're gone. You understand me?”
Hunter skates closer until the ref’s finger is actually touching him. “Then make the call or get out of the way.”
“Last warning, twenty-two. Next one's a misconduct.”
If I don't get over there in the next three seconds, this is going to become a much bigger problem. I skate up and bump Hunter’s shoulder. Same bump I've been using since sophomore year of high school. “Hey, dude. You good, or no?”
Nothing.
Not even a grunt.
“Hunt.” I lean closer. “Come on, man. We're up by one. I need you out here.”
He skates toward the bench without looking at me.
My molars grind. That hit wasn't Hunter. I mean, yeah, it was, but not the version of him that plays hockey. Hunter's hits have a point—close the gap, take the angle, put the guy down, and get the puck.
That was just violence wearing a jersey. He wanted to hurt somebody, and the nearest body happened to be wearing UConn colors. And I already know what set him off because that fucking photo has been burning a hole in my brain since last night.
UConn’s winger gets to his feet, spits blood onto the ice, then skates past me on the way back to his bench. “Your boy needs a leash. Or does he save that psycho shit for when you two are alone?”
My stick snaps across his chest before I even think. I drive through, two?handed, and he crumples. The whistle blows the instant his ass hits the ice.
“Four, you’re done. To the box.”
As I skate toward the box, Nakagawa is sitting on the ledge of the dasher boards, legs spread wide, grinning at me. “Yo, I thought this was gonna be a challenge. But you guys keep benching yourselves for me. How very generous of you.”
“Dude, you've scored one goal, and it was from a rebound that bounced off your ass. Sit down.”
He laughs.
I slam the door to the penalty box and drop onto the bench.
God, I hate freshmen.
I unclip my chin strap, pull up the cage, and drag a hand over my face.
Great.
Two minutes for being an idiot. Coach Byfield is going to chew my ass out, and honestly, I deserve it because I just handed UConn a power play while we're up by one. All because some nobody chirped me.
We better not lose this lead because of me.
I spot Hunter.
He's still on the ice near the bench, not moving. He's just staring into the stands like something up there has him by the throat.
What the hell?
I lean forward, scanning the area he's locked in on.
The student section is packed and loud and doing the same shit they always do.
Green body paint, the drum guy, someone waving a giant foam serpent.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that explains why my best friend is standing on the ice like a damn statue.
“Kincaid! Get off the ice! Now!” Coach Byfield is waving him in, and man, I haven't seen that expression since Shaw set off the fire alarm in the athletic complex last spring.
Hunter hops off the ice, sitting at the far end of the bench, head tipped down even after the play starts.
I pull my glove off and rub the Patrick Star tattoo on my wrist.
He never takes his eyes off the ice during a game. Not once. Not when he's hurt, not when he's in the box, not when he's so pissed he can barely see straight. His eyes are always on the play.
A chill slithers up my spine, and I turn back toward the crowd.
What the hell did you see?
The penalty kill starts, but it only takes UConn forty seconds to score, and now we’re tied.
“Fuck!”
I push out of the box the second the door opens and make my way toward the bench, but Coach Reed waves off the change. Hunter hops over the boards and glides in beside me.
There are five minutes left in the period. We need to keep our shit together because no way are we losing our first game of the season.
But something’s off with Hunter. He's right next to me, yet a thousand miles away.
“Hunt?”
“Focus.”
I roll my eyes and drop into my stance, jaw clenched.
Because the last twelve hours haven’t been shitty enough, now he’s icing me out.
Cap loses the draw, and the puck goes straight back to their defense. I push off, heel-to-heel, stick in the lane. They swing it across the top once and hit the weak side. Their left winger takes it wide and rips a low wrister from the circle.
Shin's square to it. The puck hits his right pad and kicks hard into the corner.
I pivot and chase, edges biting into the ice, but their winger slips around me and dishes it into the middle to Nakagawa. He doesn't even set up, just rips a wrister in one motion. Shin gets a piece of it, but the puck pops loose at his feet.
Nakagawa takes two more hard strides and barrels straight through the top of the crease, plowing into Shin full speed.
“Motherfucker!” I take off ready to pummel this goddamn freshman into the ground, but Hunter's already there.
Nakagawa laughs as Hunter knocks his helmet off and unloads. The kid takes two shots in the face, and his grin doesn't even flicker. “That all you got, big man? My sister hits harder.” He throws a right to the side of Hunter’s cage. “Come on, come on, give me something real!”
I cut my angle, skating toward Hunter. I need to stop him before he does something stupid, something that lands him in jail.
Someone slams into my shoulder, causing me to lose my footing. “What the—”
Pink hair flies past my shoulder.
Shin.
He grabs Nakagawa by the back of the jersey and yanks him off Hunter, spinning him around. “Touch my crease again, and they carry you out.”
“Does the pretty goalie want to play too? I'm honored.” The kid grins at our goalie like he's been waiting for this all game, and Shin just handed it to him gift-wrapped.
“Kutabare, temee.” Shin's stick goes across Nakagawa's throat, pinning him to the boards.
“Ooh, spicy .” Nakagawa looks right at Shin and drags his tongue up Shin's cheek in one slow, deliberate stripe. “You taste like expensive moisturizer. What is that, La Mer? Very bougie for a hockey player.”
Holy shit.
Did this fucking kid just lick Shin's face?
“Omae, kimochi warui.” Shin wipes his cheek with the back of his glove, disgust radiating off him so hard I can feel it from ten feet away. “Touch me again, and I'll gut you.”
“Promise?” Nakagawa winks.
The ref and the linesmen swarm in. One grabs Shin's stick and forces it off Nakagawa's throat while another wedges himself between them. Nakagawa puts his hands up and backs away.
I snag the back of my best friend’s jersey when he steps toward the freshman. “Hunt, don't. We're up by one, and I swear to God if you get a misconduct—”
He shrugs me off.
“What the fuck?” I shove his back.
He whips around, nostrils flaring, mouth set, staring right at me. But when he looks over my shoulder, his face pales. The muscle near his jaw is ticcing so hard his whole cheek twitches.
My breath catches, stomach hollowing as I follow his line of sight.
It's the same student section.
My brows knit together. “What are you looking at?”
No response.
“Hunter?”
Nothing.
He's just standing there staring into the crowd, his face ghostly white. “Just can't let that shit Jenkins pulled go.”
My eyes narrow, and I look back at the stands. “Is our little Titan here?”
“No.”
“So why—”
“Let's go. Our shift's over.” Hunter skates toward the bench.
“You're not going to answer me?”
“I did.”
Huffing, I hop over the boards and sit next to him. This asshole wants to lie, fine. Whatever. I don’t care.
Except I do.
Shaw buries one off a cross-crease feed from Rua, and the horn goes off a minute later.
I release an audible breath and stand. “Thank fuck.”
Hunter grabs my elbow. “Got something to do after this. Have Rua walk you back to the dorm.”
My head snaps toward him. “Yeah no. You’re not leaving me behind.”
“Atlas—”
“I'm coming with. Can’t talk me out of it. Not after he blocked us. Not to mention I've been sitting on a windshield bill all week, and I'm dying to hand-deliver it.”
“It's not Jenkins.” His grip tightens on the shaft of his stick, his entire forearm shaking. “Just need to handle something first.”
“Handle what?” I hop over the boards and move in front of Hunter, so I’m the only thing he sees. “Tell me.”
He straightens, grabs my cage, then yanks me forward so our helmets touch. “Drop it. Won't say it again.”
I swallow hard.
“Atlas.”
I give a curt nod, and Hunter releases me. My mouth opens, though nothing comes out, which is honestly a first because I always have something to say. Always. Even when it's stupid.
Especially when it's stupid.
I shake my head and make my way to where both teams are already lining up. After a few feet, I glance over my shoulder.
Hunter’s skating off the ice. He just left without shaking hands.
My feet stop, throat tightening, and I watch him disappear.
The last time Hunter hid something from me, we both almost didn't make it out of those woods.