Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
AARON
The arena is already buzzing when we step onto the ice.
Cold air hits my lungs. The familiar scrape of blades carving into fresh ice echoes around me, the boards rattling as pucks ricochet off the glass. Fans file into the seats.
Anticipation settles into my bones like it always does.
Game nights are predictable.
Routine.
I skate a slow lap around the rink, shoulders loose, stick tapping absently against the ice.
Stretch. Pivot. Push. The motion is automatic, muscle memory taking over while my brain goes through my text messages on a slow loop because I made the mistake of checking my phone before coming onto the ice.
You didn’t scare me. I was picturing what you’d feel like in my mouth.
Christ almighty.
Since when does Juliette talk like that?
Not sure how I felt about it, since it was out of character, but her attempt at sexting is adorable. She’s making an effort and that will have to be rewarded…
The idea has my mouth watering as I skate through a turn toward center ice, a sadistic smile moving my lips into a grin.
Declan.
I angle straight for him.
“You enjoy your little coffee date this morning?” I ask, skating backward past him, watching the expressions on his face change from surprised to resigned.
“Sure did!” he fires back easily.
Fucker.
He brought this on himself, and he’s going to play the victim here. “You got a problem with me speaking to my sister?”
I skate in a circle around him. “I have a problem with you interrogating her.”
“She’s my fucking sister.” His eyes flash. “You don’t get to lecture me about intimidation.”
“No?” I skate closer. “Because from where I’m standing, you filled her head with bullshit all because you’re fucking scared I’m going to tell her what a shitty human you are.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know what I said.”
“I know she walked away feeling like shit and that you made her cry, and I’ve got a huge fucking problem with you playing big brother like you’ve got clean hands.”
For half a second, something flickers in his expression.
Gone just as fast.
“She deserves the truth,” he says indignantly.
I laugh once, sharp and humorless as I chase the puck with my stick, still skating near Declan. “Whose truth? Yours or mine?”
His nostrils flare. “Careful.”
“No.” I get close, leaning in. “You be careful.”
His shoulders square defensively. His gloves curl tighter around his stick.
“You know the whole thing with Bailey was a mistake.”
And yet he’s still probably sleeping with her…
Not so guilty that he doesn’t want to get laid.
“Hey, what the fuck is going on over here?” Storm skates in, cutting between us with a sharp spray of ice. “What is this, a lover’s quarrel?”
Declan skates back a step, giving him space.
Storm looks between us. “We playing hockey or having a pissing contest?”
“Pissing contest.” I laugh, eyes not leaving Declan’s face.
Storm’s gaze bounces between us. “Fantastic. Love this energy before the puck drops.”
Declan exhales through his nose, fogging up the glass on his face mask. “Stay out of it, Storm.”
“Oh, I am not staying out of it,” Storm says dryly. “You two look like you’re about to take off your gloves and go at it. What the hell happened?”
“Ask him,” Declan mutters.
I tilt my head. “You sure you want to go there?”
Storm squints at us. “I’m sensing some tension.”
“There was a misunderstanding.” Declan shifts his weight, resting an arm on his stick.
I push off slightly, circling once before stopping again, close enough that the rookies drifting nearby slow down.
“Misunderstanding? That’s one word for it.” I laugh. “Ask him who he was fucking the last time I showed up unannounced at his apartment.”
The rookie’s eyes go wide. “I’m scared to.”
Declan shifts, directing his comment at me. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that,” I reply calmly.
Storm looks between us again, putting it together. “You’re telling me what I think you’re tell—”
“I’m telling you,” I cut in, “that loyalty means different things to different people, and you should keep your girlfriend away from certain people or they’ll accidentally fuck them.”
Storm’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“Jesus.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “So, you two hate each other because you—”
“Because loyalty has a sliding scale.”
Declan’s eyes flash. “You weren’t there for her.”
Her. Meaning Bailey?
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “All we need to know is I didn’t sleep with your girlfriend.”
It’s a brutal thing to say, stunning both my teammates.
Silence.
Storm looks at Declan. “Holy. Shit.”
Around us, players from both teams continue warming up, oblivious to the tension at center ice. A ref skates past with a whistle in his mouth, toward the bench to speak with our coaches.
Meanwhile, the ice below us feels thin, about to crack.
“And now Bishop is dating my sister. Does that seem like a coincidence?”
There it is.
The revenge plot.
“In Aaron’s defense,” Storm says carefully, “I’d also like to date your sister.”
“Shut the fuck up, Storm.”
He lifts both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying. She’s off limits, I get it. But objectively, she’s a solid ten. I understand the appeal.”
“This isn’t funny,” Declan snaps.
“No,” Storm agrees, dropping the humor. “It’s not.”
Declan’s stare never leaves mine. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? I get caught, and suddenly you’re real interested in my family.”
Storm studies me over the cage on his mask. “You gotta admit. The optics aren’t great.”
Declan huffs. “Optics? He walked in on me and Bailey, and now he’s conveniently dating my sister. That’s motive.” His frown gets deeper. “My sister is not a pawn.”
Storm exhales. “Fuckin A this is messy.”
Declan leans in. “If Juliette gets hurt because you’re trying to make a point—”
“I’m not making a point,” I lie.
“Then what the fuck are you doing with her?”
I don’t have an answer fast enough.
Kennedy shoves me, gloves planted in the center of my chest, pushing with the kind of force that shows he’s all but forgotten we’re in the middle of the goddamn ice. In front of thousands of people.
I damn near lose my balance when he shoves me a second time.
“You motherfucker,” I yell, desperate to shove back.
Storm plants himself between us again, shoving a glove into each of our chests.
“Christ, enough already! Whatever unresolved revenge drama you two have going on, it can wait until after we win.”
Declan tries to sidestep him. “I’m going to end you.”
“End me for sleeping with Juliette?” I taunt with a laugh. “You looking to lose more teeth, Kennedy?”
His nostrils flare behind his face mask. “Say her name one more goddamn time.”
I smile. “Juliette.”
Storm groans. “Oh my god, you assholes. Stop.”
He glances toward the stands, straight to the family section designated for parents, wives, partners, children, and friends of players, and gives a low whistle.
Declan and I follow his gaze.
And there she is.
Front row of that section.
Laughing at something the woman next to her is saying, bright blue knit hat on her head, jersey pulled down over a hoodie, mittens wrapped around a beer, oblivious to the fact that her name was weaponized at center ice.
“What are you going to do?” I laugh, leaning on my stick. “Ground her? Take away her car keys?”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t worry.” I clap a glove to his shoulder and give him another forceful shove, my eyes on the referee standing not too far behind him. “She’s not watching you.”
“Fuck you,” he says again.
“No—fuck you.”
Juliette is scanning the ice now, hand lifted to shield her eyes from the glare of the lights as she squints through the glass.
Then she sees us.
Her face brightens.
And she waves.
Mittened hand in the air, bouncing slightly as she stretches up on her toes.
I don’t hesitate; I wave back.
Declan waves too.
Storm—because he’s a fucking idiot—also waves.
For half a second, we look like idiots lined up at center ice, three grown men in helmets waving at the family section like it’s a parade float.
Juliette laughs and waves again.
“She’s waving at me, you prick, put your hand down,” her brother snaps.
“You wish she was waving at you.” I grin wider, lifting my glove higher to piss him off.
Storm keeps his glove in the air. “Let’s not rule anyone out. I’ve got great cheekbones.”
“She’s wearing my jersey, asshole,” Declan announces, like that settles it.
“I’ll give her one of mine later tonight, when she’s at my place.”
Declan’s hand drops immediately.
Storm’s too.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warm ups.
“You want to say that again?” Declan asks, voice dangerously calm.
Storm grabs my arm. “Dude. No.”
I shrug him off. “What? It’s not illegal to change clothes.”
“You are actively trying to get punched,” Storm mutters, lacing his gloved hand through my arm again and tugging me toward the bench. “Quit while you’re ahead.”
I can’t.
Because Declan’s jaw is tight, eyes burning, and I know exactly what that look means: He’s out to get me.
Good—I can take it.
I welcome the fight.
The bench door swings open.
Crowd noise swells.
Game.
On.