Wrath (Seven Deadly Sins #2)

Chapter 1

Paxon

“Dammit!”

“Whoa there, bud. Where’s the fire?”

I look up at my teammate Hen from my cubicle, still clutching my phone in a death grip with my text messages open. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“Boone?” he guesses accurately.

With a curt nod, I lock the screen and put my phone in the stall. I can’t afford to let my brother get in my head tonight. This game is too important.

“Is he gonna make it?”

“Not tonight,” I grumble, shifting my focus to getting my gear on.

I’m fucking worried. Boone always makes it to my home games, so when he can’t that means something is very wrong. Hen and a few of the other guys know he’s a challenge, but I still don’t like talking about it.

“He’ll be okay, man,” Hen says. “He always is.”

“Yeah.” I shake out my shoulders. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine on the ice.”

“I’ve worried about a lot of things in my day, but never you.”

The slightest of smiles tugs at my lips.

Hen’s a good guy. Jimmy Henson is his full name, but he’s been known as Hen in the league since his rookie year.

We were traded to the team at the same time, finding an unexpected home and chosen family with the Mistone Magnets.

I wasn’t thrilled about being traded away from Philly, but I gotta admit, the move was a good one.

And it kept me closer to my mom and Boone.

I twist my neck from side to side, pushing out all thoughts that aren’t about shutting down Detroit tonight. We lost our last two games against them, but that losing streak ends tonight. On home ice. Our fans deserve it.

Whatever is going on with Boone can wait until the game’s over.

The locker room door opens and Coach Willis enters, his normally cheerful face marred with a frown. My shoulders tense. Is there bad news? No. Can’t be. Boone just texted me an hour ago.

“Landham,” Coach calls out to the team captain.

Landham crosses the locker room and he and Coach huddle for a second. The captain glances over his shoulder, but not at me. He’s looking at our injured goalie, who’s been playing in spite of the bruised ribs he got from a crazy mash-up last week.

Landham nods and turns to face all of us. “Listen up, guys.”

Coach clears his throat, his expression smoothing slightly. “Just got word from Detroit that Krikowsky is back in tonight.”

Our goalie, Palachuk, glares at nothing, his jaw clenching.

“I thought that asshole was suspended for three games,” our rookie forward, Greene, yells out.

“He should be kicked out of the game,” Hen mumbles.

“Too many injuries. They made a call to let him back in,” Coach explains. “But with some pretty strict rules. If he’s out of line at all, they’ll notice. You got this, Palachuk?”

Before the goalie can speak, Landham is crossing the room and clapping him on the shoulder. “Course he does, Coach. And his team has his back.”

But the coach obviously wants to hear directly from Palachuk. Krikowsky and he go way back to their college days, and the Detroit center seems to have some kind of personal vendetta against our goalie. If Palachuk knows what it’s about, he hasn’t told us.

“Don’t worry, Coach. I can handle him.”

“He won’t even get close to you,” Hen says, bumping my arm. “Right, Bouche?”

“Damn right. We got you.”

Palachuk nods, making brief eye contact with me and Hen before turning his attention back to getting his gear on.

“Landham,” Coach says, “got the press here. Can you talk to them in five?”

“Sure.”

“No comment about Krikowsky if they ask.”

“And they will,” one of my teammates says.

“I know, Coach.” Landham goes to the mirror to check his appearance. He’s one of those pretty hockey boys, like a football quarterback; all perfect smile, styled hair, and charming nature. He’s also a legendary star center and we’re all just lucky to be on his team. Damn good captain too.

“The best thing we can do tonight, boys, is win,” Landham says. “You know, what we do best. We’re getting that fucking cup this year.” His baby blue eyes land on mine. “Ain’t that right, Bouche?”

I nod, letting his energy seep into me. This is my job, it’s what I love, and I give it my all every time I’m on the ice. “Let’s do this.”

I’ll worry about my brother, my aching shoulder, and my depressing love life when the season is over.

Once I’m on the ice, I work through my stretches and take shots at our goalie to warm up, watching the stands slowly fill with excited fans.

Playing at home is always nice. Our fans are the best, the ride or die kind, and after twelve seasons with no cup wins, we’re determined to bring it home.

Especially me, since this is likely my last season.

Retirement at thirty-six doesn’t excite me, but this body of mine can’t take many more hits.

Especially the shoulder. It sure would be nice to end my hockey career on the highest note possible.

By game time, I’m pumped and ready to take on this Detroit team. I’m eyeing Krikowsky, silently hoping he does try to go for our goalie. Then I’ll be justified in punching his ugly face in.

“Paxon ‘The Bouche’ Bouchaaaaard.” The announcer calls my name and I skate out to a deafening roar of the crowd chanting “Bouche, Bouche, Bouche”—my nickname.

Bouche means mouth in French, a moniker I earned in my rookie year since I’m pretty well known for mouthing off to opposing teams. I’m also the first to drop my gloves if someone gets under my skin, which is often.

Let’s just say I’ve seen more than my share of time inside every sin bin across North America.

I line up next to Hen and we tap our helmets together while the crowd goes wild. Once the starting lineup is on the ice, we listen to the anthem play, then get ready for some hockey.

Landham wins the face-off, slapping the puck down the ice toward the visiting team’s goal.

Their guy, Harris, is fierce, but he has his blind spots, and we know them well.

For me, being on defense equals slamming into every Detroit player who even gets close to Landham while guarding my guys when they have the puck.

Hen is on the other side, covering Nicklaus when Landham passes to him.

I know this move. Nicklaus is gonna fake and pass it back to Landham, so I make sure I get between Landham and the net to make a clear path. Seconds later, the pass happens and Landham slaps the puck forward past the goalie’s left pad while he’s looking right.

Meanwhile, I get the satisfaction of slamming two Detroit players against the boards, favoring my left side and hoping no one notices that I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

Detroit doesn’t make it easy for us, but we don’t want it easy anyway. Palachuk is in rare form tonight, blocking every shot that comes his way, and when Krikowsky has the puck, I’m laser focused. If he so much as breathes wrong, I’ll be on him.

Krikowsky is good with his stick and on his skates.

He’s a fast motherfucker too, but he’s also greedy, and I’d bet he thinks he’s got something to prove after being suspended.

Our fans boo him as he skates around our defense, but he didn’t account for me.

I let him get closer to Palachuk than is comfortable, making brief eye contact with Hen as I speed up and then put all my strength into pushing forward and taking Krikowsky out so hard he flies over the boards onto our team bench.

The puck slices through the air, but Palachuk catches it easily.

Hen smashes into me, butting his helmet to mine in celebration. When I glance at Palachuk, he’s grinning too. Fuck, I love my job.

The arena shakes with the enthusiasm of our fans, pumping me full of all the energy I need to make sure we win this thing tonight.

And we do.

By the time we’re heading back to the locker room, sweaty, exhausted but thrilled, I’m ready to get changed and get home so I can check in with Boone again. He said he was fine, but I know him well enough to know he was leaving something out.

“We’re hitting Chirps after this for beers,” Hen says, smacking my bare back as I get dressed after my shower. “You in, Bouche?”

“Not tonight, man.”

“Oh, come on. You can have one drink with your team. We’re celebrating.”

“Dude, did you see that embarrassed look on Krikowsky’s face after you bodychecked him?” Greene yells. “Fucking priceless.”

I chuckle. “That was pretty good.”

“One beer.” Hen pouts, batting his eyelashes at me.

“Okay. One beer.”

“Yes.” He pumps his fist. “Let’s go, boys.”

Thirty minutes later, we pile into Chirps, the sports bar and unofficial Magnets hangout just across the street from the arena. They typically expect us and a bunch of our fans after a home game, and there’s always a spot for us near the back by the dartboards.

Within minutes, we have pitchers of beer in front of us and I’m soaking up the excited chatter from my teammates.

I don’t want to think about what I’ll do when this is over for me.

I haven’t known anything but hockey since I was still a kid with acne and weirdly long legs.

Coach tells me there are lots of sports-related opportunities for former players, especially well-known ones like me, but none of it appeals to me.

I’m not coach material, and frankly, commentating feels like sitting around jerking off with a bunch of guys past our glory. No thanks.

I sip my beer, glancing around the bar. I could get laid.

That would be nice. I’m in one hell of a dry spell since my last relationship ended, but it’s not like it is for the other guys.

They can just talk to a pretty girl and take her home or to a hotel room.

Not me. Nope. I had to be the guy who loves dick.

Fuck knows I tried to like pussy, but my dick refused to get on board with that plan.

And no one knows. Not even Boone. Not because I’m ashamed of it—I’m not. It is what it is—but because every time I think about fessing up, there’s always some kind of incident that feels like an omen to stay quiet a little longer.

Two years ago it was a player coming out and subsequently getting traded three times before retiring at the ripe old age of twenty-three.

Last year, it was the locker-room banter about a Hollywood movie star who came out and the shock it caused because he was such a leading man and had always been linked with beautiful women.

Four months ago, it was the shitty reaction to a football player being outed kissing his partner at the hospital after his father passed.

Someone had taken a private moment between two people and blasted it all over the internet.

I know things are slowly getting better, but I don’t want my final year to be about my sexuality.

I’m so close to retiring; I can wait a little longer.

Then I won’t care who knows or what they say.

I won’t be a distraction to the league or my team, and we can just keep winning.

But I would like to get laid before then.

I glance around again, and my gaze lands on someone who seems a little out of place.

He doesn’t look like a typical hockey fan or a guy who frequents sports bars.

He’s dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans, with stylish boots on and a thick wool coat.

A little nicer than what one would normally wear to a place like this or a game.

His hair is long and reddish brown, tucked into a messy bun at the base of his neck, a few wisps escaping and framing his angular face nicely.

I can’t tell his eye color from here, but I can see that he has a gorgeous mouth with full pink lips.

I drag my eyes away. There’s no way in hell a guy like that is into dudes, and even if he was, what could I do about that here?

Another guy appears next to him, handing him a beer. That guy is hot too, but in a different way, with sandy brown hair and piercing blue eyes I can see from across the room. He’s dressed in a similar fashion except he’s wearing a long black trench. They almost look like bodyguards or—

“Are you checking out the two hit men by the bar?” Hen asks, bumping my arm with his. “They stand out.”

“I just noticed them. Hit men?”

“Mafia doesn’t quite fit, but it seems like something.”

“Yeah.” I sip my beer, glancing back just as the red-haired one meets my gaze. His expression softens and he offers me a subtle nod. Uh, didn’t expect that. I turn to Hen but gulp my beer down. “I think I’m gonna head out soon. I’m not feeling it tonight.”

Hen nods, squeezing my shoulder. “Boone is gonna be fine.”

I nod, even as my stomach tightens. “For sure.”

“Bouche!” one of the guys yells. “Come have a shot with us.”

“I got it,” Hen says, pushing me gently toward the door. “See you at practice.”

“Thanks, man.”

I slip through the crowd of people, hoping to go unnoticed. It’s not uncommon for a fan to follow us out hoping for an autograph or more.

I just want to get home, get out of this suit, and hopefully hear from Boone again so I have at least a little bit of hope of getting some sleep tonight.