Chapter 9
9
JASPER
The taste of iron fills my mouth as I spin past a defenseman and tuck the puck back between my skates to where I know Landon waits.
In a blink, I’m slammed up against the boards, the air forcefully expelled from my lungs before I’m slipping free of the hold.
Ronan’s there before I make it far, plowing straight through the player who just knocked me around, leaving him crumpled on the ice.
He hangs around the guy splayed on the ice, taunting him with words I can’t hear over the raging Ro-nan, Ro-nan chants in tonight’s crowd.
It’s electric in here for a regular Thursday night, and it isn’t helping calm the players.
Fists pound the fibreglass, and signs are pushed flush against it to try and grab my attention, but I keep it on Ronan, worry burning a hole in my gut.
The ref blows his whistle, ending the play.
I spare a glance down at the player, slowly pushing myself down the ice before Ronan’s being shoved toward me.
He bounces off my chest, his helmet narrowly avoiding clunking me in the face.
A couple of players on the other team are snapping at him for the admittedly questionable hit, but he doesn’t say a word in protest. Just like the past few days, he’s silent, half in his own world.
The only emotion he seems to show is anger.
Hawthorne, the opposing team’s captain, comes skating over at the same time the ref joins us.
Landon fits himself beside Ronan and clutches him by the shoulder, the C on his jersey impossible to miss with its bright blue colour.
“It’ll be interference,” the linesman warns us.
I flick off my right glove and thumb away the bead of sweat on my nose.
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s a weak call,” Landon snaps, jabbing a finger toward the other team’s bench.
“Nothing when Orlovsky slew-footed me earlier, but you’re going to call this?”
The ref skating off doesn’t care what Landon has to say.
My pack leader has been biting off chunks of him all game, and he knows damn well that he’s one more snarky comment from earning an unsportsmanlike penalty.
Hawthorne rolls his eyes at Landon.
“The difference is intent. You know anything about that, Montgomery?”
Landon bares his teeth.
“Want to find out? My intent will be crystal fucking clear in a few seconds.”
I slip between them and focus on the linesman, grateful for the A on my jersey.
“Two minutes for Ronan. We’re all good here.”
Ronan isn’t one for arguments on a good day, but this week, I think the idea of getting into it on the ice with the ref would send him into a spiral.
He’s already heading to the box without another word to anyone.
With my ungloved hand, I tug at the back of Landon’s jersey and haul him away from everyone.
He snaps his eyes toward me and scowls, a flash of betrayal there and gone.
His voice is tight. “You know I’m right.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are or not. We need you focused on the game, Lan. Not starting pointless arguments.”
“Ronan was right to knock that fucker on his ass. Are you okay?”
I nod and slip my glove back on as he gives me a quick up-and-down inspection.
There’s nothing out of place.
I am fine.
“I’ve been hit far worse than that.”
“Are we all good?” Dash asks, joining us on his side of the centreline.
Standing a few inches taller than he does off the ice, our goalie watches us closely.
From his net, he misses a lot of what we deal with, and I know that annoys him.
The debriefs we have after every game have gotten longer in length this season.
I offer a half-smile and tap Landon behind the knees with my stick.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
There’s no pretending Landon isn’t pissed beyond belief as we set up for a faceoff by our net, now down a man.
Our penalty kill isn’t anything to write home about, and I zone in, knowing that we’re one wrong move away from losing our single-goal lead.
Landon wins the next faceoff.
He flicks the puck back to where one of our other two best defensemen, Marleau, waits.
I avoid the shoulder coming my way and take off after Marleau when he starts down the ice.
He’s blocked near the centreline, narrowly avoiding keeping the puck before passing it back to me.
The defenseman guarding me tries to swipe it, but I’m there too quickly, hiding it behind the blade of my stick.
I know pulling off the play I want is a long shot.
Landon’s close, skating faster than he has in a long while.
The two defensemen on the other team are on my ass, and one manages to jab his stick between my legs far enough to tap the puck before I adjust my hold and shift it further in front of me.
Their goalie is hovering in front of the net, his knees bent as he stalks me.
The player at my back is gliding at pace with me, but I know if I go any faster, I’ll lose Landon.
I won’t get the shot off myself.
The goalie is too focused, skating back into the net and stretching out, waiting for my next move.
I see Landon from the corner of my eye, catching the way he taps his stick to the ice twice.
The moment the player behind me makes another move for the puck, I shove my shoulder into his chest and send it flying across to Landon.
It should be a perfect tape-to-tape pass.
The fans cheer in preparation for the inevitable Landon Montgomery snapshot.
I keep moving, attempting to shake off the defenseman clinging to me.
He’s heavy on my body, weighing me down as I shove at him, alarm building in my chest as Landon slows, stare vacant.
I notice Orlovsky barrelling toward Landon too late to warn him.
The player behind me touches the puck while continuing to hold me, killing the play, and Landon slows his glides in preparation for the whistle.
He’s completely unaware of the defenseman skating full throttle toward him.
A whistle blows nearby, and the guy hanging off me lets go immediately.
Too late.
The ref’s call doesn’t stop the other player.
In a blink, he’s lifting off his skates and jamming his right knee into Landon’s.
My packmate goes flying onto his back, sliding down the ice toward the net as he clutches his knee.
A frigid breeze trickles down my spine.
The ref comes around me with his hand still hanging in the air to signal a holding call.
I’m already moving. Ronan’s voice carries from the box, his outrage threatening to crack the ice in half.
Another whistle blows three times.
Landon groans, rolling onto his belly and then lifting himself onto his hands and knees.
The position settles some of my nerves.
If his knee was destroyed, he’d be staying on his back.
I drop to a crouch and look at his face.
The sight of him trapping a growl between clenched teeth is startlingly reassuring.
“Medic?” I ask.
“No fucking medic. Not for me.”
“Don’t. Not today. You’re not in your head.”
A linesman stands above us and says, “Do we need a medic here?”
Dash smacks his stick against the ice by his net, too far to say anything without getting in trouble.
I didn’t notice Orlovsky being guided off the ice, but there’s no sign of him now.
It’s a good thing he’s gone before Landon got back on his feet.
“Montgomery folded! A blind man could see that was embellished,” Hawthorne guffaws, skating close enough to draw another linesman.
I check myself before he’s laid out on the ice beside Landon.
My pack leader pushes to his feet.
His hiss has me clutching at his arm, helping him up.
The venom in his stare is terrifying, and when he focuses on Hawthorne, there’s a break in the opposing captain’s tough facade.
They’re both alphas, but he’s no match for Landon.
Very few alphas are, and it’s the reason he’s discouraged from fighting in the league.
I wish I’d seen this intense focus in his eyes minutes ago.
Instead, there was only a ghostly absence that still has me in knots.
It’s too similar to the way he’s been acting for days now, like he’s only half himself.
Something has happened, and I need to figure out what.
“Everyone needs to take a step back. We’re all good here,” I say, playing peacekeeper.
The linesman tips his chin in agreement and makes a show of separating Landon and Hawthorne.
Hawthorne scoffs, turning his nose up at us.
“This is bullshit.”
“Tell your players to aim a bit higher next time,” Landon goads him with a wicked smirk.
“Don’t make me put you in the box too, Montgomery,” the ref warns from where he’s skating to make the penalty announcements.
I take Landon by the arm and help him skate to the bench, unbothered by the scoffs and muttered complaints coming from the other team.
If Ronan hadn’t already been on the bench, things would have been very different just now, and not a single person on that team would be so open with their unhappiness.
Landon steps onto the bench, and the team medic forces him to get checked out in the dressing room.
I catch Dash’s stare from across the ice and nod despite not knowing all the answers yet.
We need him on his game, not worrying about Landon.
The fans shout their approval when the ref calls the two penalties, and I glance behind the bench, searching for my missing packmate.
He doesn’t appear for the rest of the period, and the moment the team steps into the dressing room during the last intermission, it only takes one look at him to know that I was right earlier.
There is something wrong with him.