12. Hux
twelve
Hux
B eing on the ice again was exactly what I needed. It was the brain break I was desperate for after a night that had thrown me for a loop. I’d intended on crashing Roe and Cara’s date, but I didn’t think for a moment it would turn out like it had. There wasn’t a single second where I felt like a third wheel. There was no awkwardness and no “get the fuck out” vibe either. When Roe had told Cara we had time, I didn’t know how, but my gut told me he was including me in the equation.
We were both suffering hard by the end of the night, and I knew Roe had used the end of the movie as an excuse to put a stop to what would have otherwise been inevitable. But I didn’t regret it at all. I’d been so close to blowing just sitting there and having Cara rub up against me as she laughed that I’d had to jump up from the sofa. Getting some space hadn’t worked either, so I’d made a mad dash for the bathroom. Two strokes of my cock and their names on my lips was all it took. I’d come so hard, my vision had whited out. But by the time I was back on that sofa with them, I was raring to go again.
It blew my mind.
I sped up, pushing hard through the crossover drills. I flew along the ice, my skates carving into the surface as I flicked a wrister to Hewitt. Blocking out thoughts of Cara and Roe, I focussed on the ice and my linemates.
The puck found Hewitt’s stick, and he effortlessly slung it back to Mironov, who passed it to Minns. Our D-man slapped it to Gauthier, and he shot it lightning quick at the net. The puck was moving so fast, it was a blur, but Rune’s reflexes were faster. He stretched hard and stopped the puck from lighting up the lamp.
I dug hard into the tight turn behind goal and shot out the other side, taking the pass and leading the drill back up the ice, my teammates following closely.
Gauthier, Hewitt, and I were the inaugural starting forwards for the Seals. In my rookie year, I saw a hell of a lot more ice time than I’d ever thought possible. It was like a dream come true for both Gauthier and me—there we were, two wide-eyed rookies scoring spots on the starting line. Wilson, Kreutzmann, and Bauer were far more experienced, one in his second season and two veterans in their fourth. They should have had it, but Coach’s instincts were solid. He’d pushed us hard, and the three of us were the better line. I still couldn’t believe it sometimes. It still felt like a dream.
We’d clicked on and off the ice. Hewitt was like our big brother, taking us under his wing. His wife still cooked us dinners on the regular, and he’d made sure we weren’t living out of suitcases in empty apartments.
Apart from my mattress, the rest of my apartment was a lost cause. I’d needed everything. Hewitt had changed that, taking me furniture shopping and making sure I bought all the essentials. It wasn’t the first time I’d lived away from home, but it was the first time outside a dorm or frat house where everything was included.
Gauthier had two roommates, both his buddies from college who were working in San Diego, too, so they’d chosen a lot of stuff together, but Hewitt still made sure that Gauthier’s refrigerator was full.
After we were finished, he’d invited the starting lines to his place and supplied enough pizza to feed half the team. That was where I’d first caught Minns’s eye.
Now, I was at the other end, coming out of a relationship with that same D-man and trying to figure out whether we could still function as a team. It was completely fucked-up.
I should have known better than to sleep with Chris and Kam, but I’d been thinking with my dick, not my head. Then I’d gotten addicted, and I’d been thinking with both my dick and my heart.
Coach’s whistle blew. “Scrimmage. Let’s hustle.”
Our team split into two groups. The two assistant coaches, Lebedev and Sawchuck, were already on the opposing team’s side of the ice.
We faced up—the starting line against the second string. I waited for the puck drop, my muscles coiled and ready to launch with as much speed and power as I could. We needed to be explosive.
Gauthier was lightning fast, stealing the puck away before Wilson even got a look in. Shouldering past him, Gauthier passed to Hewitt.
Cohen intercepted.
With powerful pumps of his legs, he was in our defensive zone in a split second. I didn’t take my eye off the puck.
Minns and Mironov worked their magic, squeezing him and forcing a pass. I was in the only open spot, ready to scoop it up.
He shot, but Minns’s stick touched the puck, changing its trajectory. I spun, needing to change directions on a dime, but I was too far gone. I barely got a touch. Annoyance flared, frustration that I wasn’t in the right spot when I needed to be eating at me.
But Hewitt was there, reaching for it and saving our asses.
With a slapshot to Gauthier and a quick pass to Mironov, the puck was still in our possession.
But the second line’s defence was all over us. They knew our plays like the backs of their hands, and they intercepted Mironov’s pass to Hewitt.
I watched, impressed, as their forwards opened the line for their defence and screamed up the ice in a breakaway. Stick to puck, they flew along, Minns and Mironov on their heels.
I charged into our defensive zone, ready for the play. We’d practiced the drill a million times. Minns forced the pass, Mironov slapped it to one of us, and the forward line would take the puck back up the ice over the blue line and into our attack zone.
It happened exactly like we’d practiced. But the second line were smart. They intercepted the puck.
Mironov was there, his stick in the perfect position to scoop up the puck and send it flying our way. Hewitt was the closest, but Gauthier was better positioned.
He caught the puck mid-flight on his tape. I opened my stance, elbow up, and skated hard, using all my power to get to where Gauthier needed me. He shot, and the blade of his stick connected with the puck in the perfect wrister, and it sailed through the air to me before landing right at my feet.
With Mironov protecting my rear, I skated like a man on a mission, covering those last few feet in a microsecond.
I didn’t even sense the body crashing into me until it was too late. I hit the ice and slid, slamming against the boards in the blink of an eye. Pain crashed into me, and the wind was knocked out of my lungs. Coach’s whistle blew, and I pressed the heels of my hands against my chest, the tightness there like a band squeezing out my breath.
The noise around me was muted, like I was underwater.
I resurfaced slowly, everything coming into sharp focus as I sucked in shallow breaths. Coach was yelling. Lebedev, our first assistant coach, was in my face. “Focus on me.” He snapped his fingers, and I nodded.
“I’m good.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No, just winded. Who the fuck slammed me into the boards?” I asked. “Mironov was right there.”
“Who do you think Coach is yelling at?”
What. The. Fucking. Fuck?
A gloved hand on my shoulder had me turning. Gauthier was there, concern in his gaze. “I’m good, man. Just….” I huffed and shook my head, disappointment coursing through me. “I thought Mironov had my back,” I said quietly. Clearly, I’d been operating under the wrong assumption. Instead of trying to work as a team, Mironov was bringing up personal shit on the ice. That was a recipe for disaster.
Gauthier moved, and I got a clear view of Coach screaming. He looked like his head was about to explode. His eyes flashed with anger, and he used every inch of his six-foot-five frame to his advantage. He pointed to the bench and shouted louder than I’d ever heard him before, daring Mironov to test him. But the other man didn’t argue. If anything, he was acting pretty damn pleased with himself.
Minns was pale, and he darted a quick glance in my direction. His face was a mask of anger, but I could tell it was put on. The heat didn’t reach his eyes, and the way his hands shook showed me just how rattled he was. Fucker. But at least he wasn’t completely uncaring. At least he was checking on me in his own way.
Hewitt forcibly turned Minns around and delivered him into the hands of our opponents—our second line.
Minns knew the truth of our ex-relationship. He was fucking there that night. But even if he hadn’t been, we’d agreed it was okay—it didn’t need to be all three of us to get naked together. He knew I hadn’t cheated on him with his wife.
I’d been with him.
He’d had his dick buried in me, for fuck’s sake.
He needed to pull his attack dog off, or this was going to get ugly.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Lebedev muttered. “This is what happens when you can’t keep your dick in your pants, Huxley. I’m surprised it took so long.”
I glared at him and bit down hard on my mouthguard. I’d probably think the same in his position, but knowing he thought I’d stepped out on Minns with his wife stung. The promise I’d made to Minns not to out him was wearing fucking thin.
This was bullshit.
“Get back out there.” Lebedev waved me off, and Gauthier stepped in front of me, replacing Lebedev.
“I don’t want them on the ice with us. That was bullshit.”
“What, aren’t you going to lecture me too?” I huffed petulantly before picking up my stick that had bounced off the boards when I hit them.
“It’s not the time.” He paused, waiting for me to look at him again. When I finally did, he added, “But I know you, Hux. I know you wouldn’t cheat.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t.” It was the most I’d said about that night to anyone. It wasn’t just my story to tell, but Minns was making it fucking hard to want to keep my mouth shut.
“Good. That’s all I need to know.”
Coach skated over. His expression was dark, his chest still heaving in anger. “Am I going to have any trouble from you?”
“None, Coach,” I responded. I wasn’t stupid enough to have it out with a teammate on the ice.
Hewitt joined us, and Coach looked between the three of us. “Good. I’m switching out the lines. You three are skating with Novotny and Watts.”
The scrimmage went on, Wilson getting the up on Gauthier when the puck dropped. The second line were fast, and they worked together like a well-oiled machine. Their passes were tight and true. But we weren’t going to let them sink anything. Rune, our goalie, was a brick wall. He didn’t let anything past him, and while the plays were messy, sticks cracking together and skates carving up the ice, he had his eye locked on the puck.
Novotny was in the mix, using his big body to shoulder Kreutzmann out of the way. His stick met the puck, and he shot it through his legs straight at Hewitt. It was anything but elegant, but it got the job done.
Hewitt was surrounded in a split second. The gap our opponents had left was miniscule, but Hewitt snapped the puck straight through it.
“Yesss,” I hissed as the puck met my tape. High and tight, I shot it. The puck sailed straight over our backup goalie’s leg, meeting nothing but net.
The buzzer wailed. We were up by one.
The scrimmage went on. Coach pulled us off and swapped out sides. Opposing players were teammates once more.
I’d just gone over the boards when Lebedev sent Minns and Mironov back onto the ice. Asshole. Mironov was going to do something stupid again, and I didn’t want it to be my career he interrupted—or worse, ended—if he succeeded.
I didn’t have to wait long either.
But it wasn’t Mironov who came out swinging.
The moment I had the puck, Minns was on me like a fly on shit. He didn’t do anything illegal, but his plays were dirty.
I passed to Watts, and Minns tried to check him into the boards as he flew past.
But Watts spun out of his way.
He darted forward, faster than I’d seen him move in a practice before. He was on a breakaway. His elbow high, he slapped his stick down and connected with the puck.
Austin didn’t stand a chance. It went sailing straight past the gap under his outstretched arm.
The buzzer sounded.
We were up by two.
Minns skated away, joining his line again.
But Mironov wasn’t playing anymore.
He rounded on me, his stare dripping with venom. His teeth were bared like an animal on attack.
I may be a hockey player who wore a scowl more often than not, but I was a lover, not a fighter. I avoided confrontation. I didn’t dive into fights, and I fucking hated the sight of blood. For a hockey player who saw it virtually every game, it was irony at its best.
I moved, trying to get the fuck out of his way. But Rossi was too slow. We collided, and I sent him sprawling to the ice. “What the fuck, man?” he shouted.
I spun away from him.
Where the fuck was Coach? Lebedev? Sawchuck? Why wasn’t anyone stopping this bullshit?
The puck dropped, and I kept moving, skating faster than Mironov. I was more agile too. Where he had bulk on his side, I had speed. Mironov was a brawler, one of those old-school hockey players from the eighties. During every game, he spent equal amounts of time skating, fighting, and being sin binned. I did not want to throw down with him. It’d be lights out for sure. I’d seen far too many players end up on IR after a hit from him. I’d survived a hit to the boards with barely a scratch. I wouldn’t be so lucky next time.
Coach blew his whistle. He must have finally caught on to what was happening. Gauthier and Hewitt were between me and the wall of approaching muscle in an instant. Coach threw himself between us, too, and my teammates piled onto the ice, pushing us apart.
Coach yelled, “That’s it. Mironov, you’re out. Get back to the hotel.”
Mironov went chest to chest with Coach, and his face morphed from hatred to unchecked rage. Mironov yanked his gloves off and tossed them aside. At his side, Minns pressed his hand to Mironov’s chest. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Mironov clearly had. He focussed on me again, his glare as sharp as cut glass. Lebedev and Sawchuck took the chance while he was distracted, grasping him by the arms and hauling him away. They were headed off the ice, but Mironov was struggling again.
No one pissed Coach off and came out unscathed.
Mironov was playing with fire.
How did we end up like this? Our team was crumbling apart, the entire fabric holding it together disintegrating into a pile of dust.
Fuck me. This was my fault.
I’d caused this. I was the one who couldn’t stay away from Chris and Kam. I was the one who kept going back to them. I’d wanted more. I’d gotten caught. I’d risked exposing their secret.
It was all on me.
Everything.
My shoulders slumped in defeat. I was the one tearing the team apart.
I shouldn’t be here. I should have stepped away from the team. I should have gone on the player assistance program like Keeley offered, and none of this would have happened. She’d warned me about it. She’d asked me if I wanted time away, but I’d refused. I was scared of losing my spot on the team, scared of letting Hewitt and Gauthier down.
I thought that if I was professional and kept my mouth shut, we’d be able to avoid it spilling onto the ice. But clearly Mironov had different ideas.
“Practice is over,” Gauthier stated.
Thank fuck. I eased myself over the boards and made the long-ass trudge down the rubber-matted tunnel to the locker room. It was only a temporary setup, as the entertainment centre we were playing in was usually used for concerts. Temporary racks and benches were set out in a U-shape, and our gear manager was working overtime to keep us organized.
I dropped onto the seat without a word.
Gauthier and Hewitt heaved themselves down next to me and waited, not saying a word. But there was no way I was starting this conversation.
Except that after what felt like five excruciating minutes, I’d had enough.
“Why are you guys here?” I asked. I was tired, and not just from practice. “You should be with the rest of the team.”
“Practice is over, and you’re our teammate. You need someone on your side,” Hewitt said without hesitation.
“You’ve heard all the rumours. You should want to smash my face in too.”
“We told you before that we didn’t believe them,” Gauthier shot back. He softened his voice when he added, “Listen, we know you don’t want to talk about it. You would have taken us up on our offers before now if you did. But we’re here for you if you ever change your mind.”
“Have you extended the same courtesy to Minns?”
“Mironov looks like he’s doing a good enough job of being there for him,” Hewitt muttered under his breath.
“Yes,” Gauthier answered without hesitation. “I’ve spoken to him, and I reached out to Kamirah too.”
“You have?” I asked. Hope flared in my belly. Maybe if she spoke up, the media circus would die down and Mironov would calm the fuck down.
Gauthier continued on like his words hadn’t caused a seismic shift under me. “Kam and I had a good talk too. She’s… disappointed that the press has jumped on you.”
“And?” I asked, my voice barely a squeak. “Is she going to clear the air?”
Gauthier hesitated, and that bubble of hope burst, my stomach revolting at the sudden letdown. “No. She and Minns have decided to spend some time out of the public eye once these games are over.”
“Fuck,” I growled, anger and disappointment surging through me all over again. The adrenaline from practice was fading fast. My hands shook, and I squeezed my fists tight, trying desperately to hide just how angry and fucking sad I was. Not because I wanted them back—I didn’t—but this black cloud hanging over me was bringing me down.
“Can’t believe he’s such a hot-headed idiot that he’d jump you during a scrimmage. His own fucking teammate,” Hewitt added, still stuck on the previous conversation.
“Yeah, Mironov and I definitely don’t play for the same team.” I huffed. I could feel Gauthier’s stare boring into my head as if he was trying to reach in and pluck the thoughts straight out of my brain. I’d said too much; I’d given away too many hints. I needed to shut the hell up.
Gauthier didn’t break his stare, and I refused to look his way. If I did, he’d know. And he couldn’t have my thoughts. I didn’t give a fuck about Minns—not when he and Kam were happy to hang me out to dry—but I’d made a promise. No matter how shitty he was being, I wouldn’t lower myself to that level. I wouldn’t out Minns.
When it happened to me, I’d lost nearly everyone because of it.
I closed my eyes and clenched my fists tighter, hating being so powerless.
“Good play out there, you three,” Coach said from the doorway, breaking the silence. “You kept your cool.”
“Thank you,” I agreed, my voice too low to carry much past Hewitt and Gauthier.
Coach tilted his head, and Gauthier and Hewitt scrambled up and over to the showers, still fully dressed. It was clear Coach wanted a private word from the way he waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke again.
“Sawchuck is on the phone to Keeley. We’ve pulled Miranov from the team for the first game. I won’t have my players attacking one another, no matter how justified he might be.”
“Coach—” I started.
“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need to know who is bedding who, but when the fallout bleeds onto my ice, it becomes my business.” His words cut deep, his withering glare trained directly on me.
My gut clenched. I was officially on his shit list, but that was no surprise.
“My… personal opinion is that you should take a leave of absence and deal with your shit away from the Seals so you don’t completely destroy this team.” He blew out a breath and rubbed his forehead. His age was evident, every wrinkle showing in sharp relief under the unforgiving lights in the changeroom. “However, as the team’s representative, my official position is that we are here for all our players, and you’ll be offered whatever support you need.” It sounded like he’d memorized the spiel that Keeley had written, regurgitating it back to me.
“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, barely keeping the sarcasm from my voice. “Great talk, Coach.”
I turned away from him, wishing we were in San Diego. The cubbies weren’t much, but they gave us something we could bury our heads in if we decided to be ostriches. I desperately needed that right now.
I stripped off the rest of my uniform, then wrapped the towel around my waist. I wasn’t hanging around to sing “Kumbaya” with these guys—especially not when I’d seen enough of them standing behind Minns and Mironov to make me realize just how much the cards were stacked against me.
Not a single one of them wanted me there. If I was a better man, I would gladly oblige—leaving would be best for everyone—but I was going to be selfish.
I wanted that time Roe had promised Cara we had.
Our teammates began to file in, and not a single word was spoken. The rip of tape, the shuffle of skates, and padding being taken off were the only sounds in the room. A tense silence descended over us like a heavy fog, but it was brittle like glass. I followed Gauthier and Hewitt, escaping my teammates’ stares.