CHAPTER SEVEN
Coach Remington calls it a low-key practice game, but the second Bradford lines up across from me at center ice, I know there isn’t going to be anything friendly about it.
We’ve divided the team into home jerseys and away jerseys, running three twenty-minute periods with officials, full line changes, and enough structure that Coach can pretend he’s evaluating systems instead of giving a group of pissed-off hockey players permission to beat the shit out of each other.
This is all because he’s got some fucking bet going with Coach Kavanagh, Castlebrook University’s coach.
He wants to secure a win, and all he really needs to do is ban Hayden Lockwood’s girlfriend from the arena. He’s Castlebrook’s captain and fucking psychotic if anyone even looks at his girlfriend. He would rip the rink apart, and Castlebrook would have to forfeit our next game.
Literally none of us, specifically those of us that are part of the Black Crown Society, or, you know, have someone trying to murder our future wives, give a shit about hockey.
I’m here for other reasons. There are only a few places I can have the conversation I want to have right now, and the middle of the ice rink is one of them.
The scoreboard is running, the penalty boxes are open, and Coach Remington is glaring in our direction while Bradford and I stare at each other over the faceoff dot.
Blair has been true to her word, avoiding me every chance she gets, and it’s taken everything in me not to kick her dorm room door down and inform her of her future Mrs. Elijah Moretti status.
I’ve always known, always planned on it, but I knew I couldn’t compromise anything with Blair’s place within The Society.
Now everything is fucked anyway; I can’t guarantee that my father’s name will be enough to secure her spot as my Chosen One, so I’ve decided to take things into my own hands.
I haven’t been able to prove Bradford had anything to do with what happened to Blair in Beau’s stall, but proof has never been the only way to get information out of someone.
Sometimes all it takes is enough pressure applied in exactly the right place, and Bradford has always been too arrogant to keep his mouth shut once he thinks he has the advantage.
The linesman raises the puck between us, and Bradford lowers his stance, choking up on his stick while his eyes stay fixed on mine instead of the official’s hand.
“How’s Blair feeling?” Yep, that’ll fucking do it.
My grip tightens around the shaft of my stick, but I keep my expression empty as the linesman drops the puck.
Bradford tries to swipe it cleanly to his right defenseman, turning his bottom hand over for a forehand draw.
I tie up his blade before he can sweep through and drive my shoulder into his chest. Noah cuts across from the wing at exactly the right moment, kicking the loose puck back to our defenseman before accelerating through the neutral zone, and I release Bradford only after giving him one final shove that sends him stumbling away from the dot.
If he’s asking about Blair because he heard what happened, that doesn’t mean anything.
News travels fast at St. Augustine, especially when it concerns a girl the Society has already decided is valuable.
It’s the faint smile on Bradford’s face when he regains his edges that bothers me, because he doesn’t look curious.
He looks like he knows exactly what kind of answer he’s trying to pull out of me.
Our defenseman moves the puck D-to-D behind us, drawing the first forechecker toward the left boards before sending a hard stretch pass through the neutral zone.
I curl along the far side to stay onside, accept the puck on my backhand, and immediately pull it across my body as Bradford closes from the middle.
He expects me to chip it deep and chase, so I open my hips like I’m preparing to dump it behind their defense.
That’s when I cut back sharply across the blue line and use his momentum against him.
He reaches for me with one hand on his stick, but I drag the puck around the blade, lower my shoulder, and drive straight through his chest. The hit sends him backward into the boards hard enough that the glass shudders, yet the puck stays on my stick as I continue below the faceoff circle.
Their weak-side defenseman collapses toward the crease, leaving Benjamin open high in the slot.
I feed him a pass through the triangle between two sticks before continuing toward the net.
Benjamin catches it cleanly and releases it without dusting it off.
The shot travels low through traffic, clipping the inside of a defender’s skate before changing direction halfway to the net.
Their goalie reacts late, dropping into the butterfly as the puck strikes his left pad and kicks into the blue paint.
I’m already there, battling for the inside position while Bradford hooks an arm around my waist from behind.
I get one swipe at the rebound before their defenseman clears it toward the corner.
The puck stays alive, and I dig my inside edge into the ice before reversing direction, slipping out of Bradford’s hold as I chase it below the goal line.
He follows close enough that I can hear his breathing through the cage of his helmet, his stick tapping mine as he tries to pin the blade against the boards.
Looks like someone else only showed up for the conversation we’re inevitably going to have before I crack his skull on the ice in front of everyone.
Fuck, I need to calm down.
“You’re hovering more than usual,” he says as we collide behind the net. “Almost like you’re worried someone might take something that belongs to you.” I can fucking hear him smirking.
“If you’re gonna fuck him up, at least give me the puck,” Noah snaps. I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is. I’m supposed to be the bossy triplet. I plant my skates wide and shield the puck with my body, absorbing his weight while Noah circles behind us to offer support.
“You spend a lot of time thinking about what belongs to me,” I throw out to Bradford, because I need to get him talking.
“Hard not to when you keep leaving it unattended.” Bradford’s tone is serious, and it’s not proof that he’s the one who took her inhaler, but it is proof that he’s watching her closely.
That’s all I really need to know that I’m going to murder him.
Maybe not today, here in front of all these witnesses, but by the time this is all over, he will be feeling the same panic she did the day the inhaler was ripped out of her hands.
Bradford's words settle beneath my ribs and ignite every violent instinct I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to control.
I move the puck to Noah before turning into Bradford, sliding one glove beneath the edge of his shoulder pad as I drive him into the glass.
The boards shake under the impact, and his helmet snaps backward hard enough that the ref starts skating toward us, already shouting for me to disengage.
Bradford laughs directly in my face, and that laugh tells me more than anything he could possibly tell me.
I keep him pinned there while the play moves toward the opposite end of the rink. “You’ve got about five seconds to tell me who attacked Blair.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look confused. “You really think I would hurt Blair? I need her in good condition for the Choosing Ceremony, don’t I?”
The sound of Blair struggling to breathe inside Beau’s stall rushes back into my head so clearly that for a second I forget where I am.
I see her shaking hands and the panic in her eyes, then the marks along her neck and the scars she tried to hide beneath her uniform.
I remember the way she recoiled when I reached for her.
Bradford watches my expression and finds whatever answer he was looking for. His smile widens, and I see fucking red again.
I drive my fist into his stomach before I remember I’m still wearing a glove. The padding dulls the impact, but it’s enough to fold him forward, and I grab his jersey before he can fall, forcing him upright.
I need to feel his bones breaking under my hands, so I rip his head backward and punch him directly in his dumb face.
I don’t get to hit him again because the ref grabs my elbow and pulls, finally forcing enough space between us that Bradford can push away from the boards.I let him go because Coach Remington is already screaming my name from the bench, but I keep my eyes locked on Bradford as he skates backward with that same smug smile still stretched across his face.
It’s a blessing that the ref stopped me because once I started hitting him, I could feel myself losing control. I would have beaten him to death if he didn’t stop running his mouth.
The whistle shrieks repeatedly as Coach Remington climbs halfway over the boards.
“Moretti, penalty box! Now!” I don’t argue with him and ruin his little practice to beat Castlebrook extravaganza.
I skate away without argument because I need a time-out.
I need to clear my head and think in a more calculated way to handle all of this.
I need the clarity that only my girl brings me.
The penalty box door slams behind me, and I drop onto the narrow bench. Across the ice, Bradford remains bent forward while one of the trainers checks his mouth. He glances toward me once, and I slowly lift one hand, tapping two fingers against my eyes before pointing them directly at him.
I’m watching you, motherfucker.