Chapter 9
Nine
NIX
The puck drops, and I’m where I need to be.
The stress of everything going on behind the scenes fades into the background as I lock in—no distractions, no anxiety, no wondering if I’m one fuck up from being traded to a frozen hellscape.
On the ice, the rules are clear, and my role is straightforward.
Here, I don’t have to worry about social norms or walking to the beat of a different drummer.
On the ice, I get to just be.
Just play.
Thank God.
This is why I’ve always loved the game. No matter how confusing or complicated real life gets, when I’m on the ice, life is simple, win or lose. And that’s a beautiful thing.
Nearly as beautiful as the first play of our season two opener…
Winchester wins the faceoff, sending the puck back to me with a gratifying smack.
I trap it clean against my blade, scanning the ice for openings, then fire it up to Jean-Louis on the wing.
He takes it into the zone with his signature fancy footwork, while I book it into my next position, already reading the play three steps ahead.
The crowd roars, giving the team a lift as cheers echo through the arena.
This is the magic of a home game—the community, the tribe coming together to fight for a common goal. It’s something humans crave on a primitive level and don’t get nearly enough of in our isolated modern lives.
Knowing the Voodoo fans are up there screaming for us, funneling their hope and excitement down onto the ice, is a boost I don’t take for granted.
I like the thought of Charlotte up there, too. I hope she’s having a good time, so far, sipping one of those mango mimosas they serve in the WAG box and enjoying her night off. She’s been grinding hard on plans for the film festival gala this week. She deserves a fun night out with her friends.
Followed by a good time post-game with her fake boyfriend…
I haven’t asked if she’s up for doing something after our “meet-up for staged kissing” in the family area, but I hope she will be. A win always gets me too amped up to go home right away, and we’re going to win tonight.
I feel it in my bones…
The Outlaws’ center—smug, beefy dude, the kind who thinks his size makes him untouchable—tries to muscle past me along the boards.
I hip-check him clean, legal, and he goes stumbling while the puck bounces free.
I scoop it up and send it back to Blue, who fires it up the ice to Grammercy with precision that would make a sniper jealous.
And Grammercy?
Well, he puts the puck where it belongs—right in the Outlaws’ net.
“That’s it, men. That’s it!” Coach yells from the bench. “That’s how we vanquish the enemy! Give them no quarter!”
A laugh vibrates through my chest. Coach may be pissed at me at the moment, but he’s still the same Dwarf Warlord on the sidelines. He’s every bit as locked in as we are and always ready with The Lord-of-the-Rings-level hype that makes the fight for the win feel epic.
The whistle blows, and we change lines.
I skate to the bench, still grinning, adrenaline singing in my veins.
The season opener is off to a solid fucking start, if I do say so myself.
For the first time since that disciplinary meeting, I feel the weight around my neck ease a bit.
Surely, management can see the magic this team makes on the ice.
That’s not the kind of alchemy you want to fuck with by kicking a key player off the team for dubious reasons.
I drop onto the bench, reaching for my water bottle as Blue lets out a strangled sound beside me.
I look up sharply, already worried, even before I see the shock on his face.
Blue doesn’t do strangled sounds or shock. He rarely looks anything but calm or, occasionally, amused. But right now, his eyes are as wide as I’ve ever seen them. I follow his gaze to the Jumbotron, currently lit up with one of those “fan cam” moments they do between plays.
It’s Charlotte, I realize, a part of me excited to see her pretty face even as a savvier part instantly warns that this is bad.
Very, very bad.
She’s not in the WAG box with the other wives and girlfriends.
She’s out in the concourse and…soaking wet for some reason. Her hair is flat and dripping in the front, her eye makeup is smeared, and her blouse—some thin white fabric—is plastered to her skin.
Plastered, and completely see-through…
I fight the urge to stand up and shout for her to pull the shirt away from her chest. Or for the camera guy to cut away. She looks upset, for fuck’s sake! Like she’s been crying or hurt. This is clearly not the time for a “Party Foul” spot. Any idiot with a shred of empathy could see that.
But apparently, the camera guy isn’t blessed with a single fucking shred, and any reaction from me will only add fuel to the fire, a fact Blue confirms by resting a fist on my knee.
I nod, clenching my jaw as I force myself to stay seated.
The frame holds on Char for what feels like an eternity while the arena erupts in a groundswell of laughter, smug male muttering, and a softer undercurrent of concern.
The concerned voices are in the minority. By far. It’s an ugly reminder that humans aren’t always at our kindest in group situations. The tribe can lift you up, but it can rip you apart just as easily.
Finally, the camera cuts away. Thank fuck.
But it’s far too late for Charlotte’s comfort, I’m sure.
It’s certainly too late for mine.
It feels like my entire body has gone cold from the inside out. Not hot. Not the explosive anger I felt when I saw that asshole hitting his wife.
Frozen. Tight. The kind of cold that kills.
I’m calmly, coldly, imagining what I’m going to do to that Jumbotron operator when I get him alone, when Blue’s voice cuts through the static in my head. “She’ll be okay. And if she’s hurt, someone will help her. Arena security is on the ball.”
Forcing my voice to say low—don’t want to give Coach a reason to think I’m about to fly off the handle—I mutter, “I hope so, but what the fuck was that guy thinking? Putting that on the Jumbotron? That was fucking cruel.”
Blue grunts, his eyes narrowing on the ice. “He wasn’t thinking. Most people aren’t, you know that. Thoughtless people are often cruel.”
It’s my turn to grunt.
In agreement.
Thoughtless people are often cruel. Which is why I need to encourage them to be more thoughtful.
With my fists.
“Just keep your head down and try to let it go,” Blue adds, as if reading my mind. “Charlotte wouldn’t want this to affect your game. That would only make her feel worse than she likely does already.”
He’s right. As usual.
I can’t murder the Jumbotron operator. I can’t even rough him up a little. I can write a scathing letter to human resources, and I fully intend to, but that doesn’t give me anything to do with the cold fury freezing my blood right now.
I’m still sub-zero as we climb over the boards, our line surging back onto the ice.
The puck is already in play, and I track it, moving on instinct.
But as much as I will myself to focus, a part of me is still up in the concourse with Charlotte.
Is she getting help after whatever happened?
Has some Good Samaritan at least offered her their Voodoo fan towel—the one they whip around in circles when they do the “Good Times Roll” chant—to dry off with?
Are Elly and Makena rushing to the rescue with wet wipes and first aid kits, and all the other magical things women keep in their purses?
Why weren’t Elly and Makena with her in the concourse? What was she doing out there? The WAG box is fully stocked with food and drinks and has a private bathroom, so I…
I flinch, thoughts zooming back to the ice as the Outlaws’ center charges straight for me, a glower on his beefy face. He’s clearly looking for vengeance for that hip check.
Fine.
If he wants to keep playing rough, we can play rough. My inner chill is finally thawing into something more familiar, a hot rage I know exactly what to do with.
I line him up.
Wait for the perfect moment…
Then brace for impact and lean into the hit.
It’s legal. Clean. Shoulder to chest, but hard enough that he goes flying into the boards with a crash that echoes through the arena.
The whistle blows. The ref skates over, checking on the guy. But Beefy waves him off, getting back to his feet with another glare in my direction.
No penalty.
Good.
Because I’ve got more rage to burn…
By the time the first period ends, I’ve racked up three hits that make the highlight reel, blocked two shots, and nearly started a fight with their enforcer when he took exception to my attitude, which is admittedly poor.
As we head down the tunnel, Coach appears at my side, murmuring in his warlord voice, “Wrath is good, but don’t let it lead to ruin. Hot, but not too hot, son.”
I nod. “Got it. I’m good. I promise.”
“You look thirsty,” he says. “For blood.”
I exhale a ragged laugh. “Metaphorically, coach. Only metaphorically.”
He studies me for a beat. “Good. Keep it that way. And keep it legal.”
I nod again and head for my stall, ripping off my gloves, my helmet, my jersey, desperate to check on Charlotte. I grab my cell from the top shelf with shaking hands.
I’m mentally composing a text, promising to vanquish her enemies with all the resources at my disposal, when I see it…
There’s already a message waiting for me.
From her.
Charlotte: Hey, just wanted to let you know that I’m fine.
I’m at Kilian’s, the sports bar down the street.
I popped in to buy one of their T-shirts for the drive home and stayed to watch the game.
You’re killing it, by the way, but you look ragey.
If that has anything to do with me, I’m sorry.
Please don’t be angry or upset or whatever on my account.
I’m fine. And I really don’t want to be the reason you get in more trouble.
Nix: I’m not going to get in trouble. Don’t worry about me. I’m worried about you. What the hell happened? You looked upset.