Chapter 5
Ramsey
The second the announcer calls my name over the speakers, the entire arena erupts.
"Number ninety-one, Raaaaaamseyyyy 'Ghoooost' Blackwooooood!"
I roll my eyes beneath my helmet as I skate onto the ice. The nickname still feels like bullshit. Now it's plastered all over campus merch with my number—shirts, foam fingers, even those stupid fucking rally towels they're waving in the stands.
I do a quick circle around our side of the rink, tapping my stick against the ice. The St. James players are already lined up on their blue line.
My eyes scan the stands automatically, finding her exactly where she should be—three rows up, just behind our bench.
Reese is wearing my away jersey, the white fabric swimming on her small frame, my name and number stretched across her back.
Her dark hair is pulled up in a half-up ponytail with a green and silver ribbon tied around it.
She's leaning forward in her seat, already on the edge of her seat before the game's even started.
Iris and Oakley, my other two cousins’ wives are on either side of her—Iris with her face buried in her phone and Oakley bouncing in her seat like she's mainlined three Red Bulls. But it's the commotion a few seats down that catches my attention.
Reagan is standing, a bucket of popcorn clutched in one hand while she gestures wildly with the other.
Her face is flushed with anger as she leans into some frat-looking motherfucker who's clearly said something to piss her off.
I watch as her free hand drifts toward her back pocket—where I know for a fucking fact she keeps a switchblade.
Penn's either not with her or he's grabbing drinks, because there's no way this asshole would still be conscious if my cousin was present.
Without hesitating, I skate over to the glass and smack it hard with my stick. The sound cracks through the air, drawing everyone's attention. Reagan glances over, those eyes so similar to Reese's narrowing when she sees me. She rolls her eyes dramatically, but her hand moves away from her pocket.
The frat boy looks like he's about to shit himself as I lean in close to the glass.
"Keep your fucking hands off my cousin, or I'll cut it off with my skate. Ya understand me?" I say, my voice carrying through the small gaps in the plexiglass.
The guy's face goes white. He nods frantically, already backing away toward the aisle. Smart move. Reagan flips me off, but there's a smirk of gratitude appearing as her hand goes to her belly while she continues walking back to the other girls.
Looking back at Reese, I nod my head once at her before skating back away from the boards.
The puck drops, and it's fucking chaos from the second my stick touches it.
I slap it back to Archer, who darts past their center like the guy's standing still.
St. James has always played dirty, but tonight they're out for blood, especially that prick Thompson who slammed Copeland into the boards last season and took him out for three games.
I keep my eye on Thompson as I position myself for the offensive play.
There's a roaring in my ears that drowns out everything except the scrape of blades on ice and the hollow thwack of sticks hitting the puck.
This is where I belong—where I can let the darkness out in small streams. Without scaring her.
Well, it's one of the few places I can let out some of the darkness.
"Ghost, open!" Archer yells, and I dart between two defensemen, my stick ready as he sends the puck sailing toward me.
I catch it clean, feeling the satisfying flick of weight against my blade before I fire it toward the net. The goalie blocks it, but barely; the rebound bounces right to Copeland who slams it home.
The crowd erupts as the goal horn blares. I feel a hedonistic grin split my face as Cope skates over, crashing into me with a body check that would level a normal person.
"Fucking beautiful setup," he shouts over the noise.
My eyes find Reese in the stands. She's on her feet, screaming, her face lit up with a joy so pure it makes my chest ache. This is why I keep her at arm's length—she's too fucking good, too innocent for the shit that lives inside me.
The game speeds up after that. St. James is pissed about the early goal, and they're not even pretending to play clean anymore. I take an elbow to the ribs that knocks the wind out of me, but the ref conveniently looks the other way.
"You good?" Davis asks as we line up for the face-off.
I spit blood onto the ice. "Just fucking dandy."
The second period is even worse. Thompson is shadowing me like a fucking stalker, whispering shit every time he gets close enough.
"That your girlfriend in your jersey?" he says during a scrum along the boards. "Maybe I'll show her what a real hockey player feels like after we're done here."
I dig my elbow deeper into his gut, making him grunt. "Everyone know you’re suicidal? You just signed your death certificate. Keep your fucking eyes open, Thompson. That little comment just lost you your fucking life. Don’t fuck with a Blackwood, bitch."
The ref blows the whistle, separating us before I can do any real damage. I skate back to position, the rage inside me building to a fever pitch. Every cell in my body is screaming for violence, for release.
It happens halfway through the third period. Thompson takes a run at Davis, blindsiding him with a vicious cross-check that sends him crashing face-first into the boards. The sickening crack of impact echoes through the arena as Davis crumples to the ice, blood already pooling beneath his face.
Everything goes silent in my head. A perfect, deadly silence right before a storm.
I'm across the ice in seconds, dropping my gloves before I even reach Thompson. He sees me coming, smirking as he tosses his own gloves aside. Good. At least the fucker's ready to go.
"Come on, Blackwood," he taunts, backing up slightly. "Show me what you got."
My first punch connects with his jaw so hard I feel the vibration all the way up my arm.
His head snaps back, but he manages to stay upright, swinging wildly at my face.
I duck under it, driving forward to slam him against the boards.
The crowd is on its feet, screaming for blood—my blood, his blood, they don't give a shit as long as it spills.
"You like targeting my fucking teammates?" I growl, landing another punch to his ribs that makes him wheeze. "You St. James fucks have turned into a bunch of fucking low lifes since Rhodes quit."
I grab his jersey, yanking him forward before slamming him back against the glass. His helmet cracks against the plexiglass, but I don't stop. The rage is a living thing inside me now, clawing its way out through my fists.
He tries to knee me in the groin, but I twist away, using his momentum to throw him down onto the ice. I'm on him in an instant, straddling his chest as I rain blows down on his face. Blood sprays across the white ice, some of it his, some of it mine where his face split my knuckles open.
"Blackwood! Enough!" The refs are pulling at me now, trying to separate us, but I shrug them off like they're nothing.
Thompson is still conscious, still fucking smirking despite the blood pouring from his nose and mouth. "I’ll tell your mother you said hi," he wheezes. "Right after she cums all over my di—"
Something snaps inside me. The last thread of control I've been clinging to frays and breaks. I grab him by the throat, squeezing as I slam his head against the ice once, twice, three times. There's a sickening crack—his helmet or the ice, I don't know and don't care.
"Get him off! Get him the fuck off!" The refs are shouting now, more of them piling on.
My guys manage to separate us, four of them hauling me backward as I struggle against their grip. Thompson's face is a bloody mess, his left eye already swelling shut. Good. I hope he feels it every time he blinks for the next month.
"Get him out of here!" the head ref shouts, already signaling to the penalty box.
I scan the ice as they drag me toward the box.
Davis is sitting up now, talking to the trainer—thank fuck.
My eyes automatically find Reese in the stands.
She's on her feet, hands pressed against her mouth, those hazel eyes wide with shock.
The sight of her brings me back to myself, just a little. Enough to stop fighting the officials.
"Five minutes for fighting!" the announcer calls out. "Number ninety-one, Ramsey Blackwood!"
They know better than to eject me from the game. My father would have them destitute before I even got my pads stripped in the locker room.
I slide into the sin bin, slamming my stick against the wall as the door clangs shut behind me. My blood is still pumping hot through my veins, the taste of copper sharp on my tongue. The penalty box attendant gives me a wide berth, like I might reach out and strangle him next.
I scan the ice as play resumes, keeping track of positioning even as my knuckles throb.
A movement in the stands catches my eye. Reese has moved down to the front row, right behind the penalty box. She's leaning over the railing, her face a mix of concern and something else I can't quite place. When our eyes lock, she mouths, "Are you okay?"
I can't help the grin that splits my face. She looks so fucking worried, like I'm the one who got hurt instead of the other guy. I shrug, making sure she can see the blood on my jersey, on my face.
"Yep," I call back loud enough for her to hear. "And I'd do it again."
She shakes her head, that exasperated look I know so well crossing her face. Her eyes roll dramatically, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. That's my girl.
"You’re a freaking caveman," she mouths back.
I’ll be whatever she wants to call me.
Phantom. Caveman. Ghost. None of it really matters because I’m her best fucking friend, her protector, and her stalker even though she doesn’t know just how much I actually fucking watch her.
My time is up, and I’m let out of the box and skate right over to Coach King. I just know I’m going to be paying for this shit.
"Well, that was fun. Did you have fun? Wanna do it again? Jesus fuck, Blackwood. These guys all look up to you and Astor. You’ll be owing me for this little stunt, you understand?"
I give Coach Kingston a little salute with my hockey stick because it was worth it and skate back out to center ice to finish this fucking game.