31. Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-One
Hold my tea, friends, because things are getting heated on the ice!
The trade deadline is approaching, and the whispers are flying faster than a Shep Landon Slap Shot.
Our Renegades are leading the division, but it seems like someone’s got a score to settle.
Cale Johansen, that smooth-talking, trouble-making son-of-a-gun out of our very own Arvon University, stirred up a ruckus during last night’s game.
Is it just trash talk, or is something more going on? ~Penni’s Puckleberry Tea
Shep
The trade deadline loomed. The time of year when teams scrambled to stack the deck, cut deadweight, chasing that last piece for a playoff run. Some rosters flipped overnight, barely recognizable by morning.
Didn’t matter much to us. My slump was in the rearview, and we sat at the top of the division, locked in and holding strong.
Playoff spot? A given. The front office would tweak the roster, try to make us even better, but the real question hung over our heads like a guillotine—how far would we go this time?
I played my part. Faced the cameras with easy confidence, fed the media the same recycled lines. Flashed my Golden Boy smile when they expected it, flexed for a gym selfie when PR nudged. Whatever kept the higher-ups happy, kept them off my back.
Kept them from noticing that every damn cell in my body ached to break their rules. That all the PR smiles in the world couldn’t bury the truth.
I wanted Merri.
Tonight we faced the Boston Rangers, a smart, gritty team.
They glowered from the visitor’s bench as the arena lights dimmed and the announcer bellowed out the Renegades lineup.
My name hit the speakers, and I swung out onto the ice, fist pumping over my head, a big ol’ grin playing on my lips as the hometown crowd roared their welcome.
A few minutes later, the whistle blew and the puck dropped.
Our captain dominated the face-off, scooping the puck back to Hammer on point.
The Swede settled it down and without a wasted glance, fired that little bastard my way.
It zipped between the opposition’s skates to land smack on my stick.
Johansen’s growled curse spurred me up the boards and deep into Ranger territory.
Boston swarmed, a wall of ugly-ass orange jerseys between me and the net.
They forced me outside, limiting my options, but I took the shot anyway.
The goalie lunged, his pads slamming the ice with a resounding thud.
Hammer snatched up the rebound like the badass he was, saucering it between two Rangers straight to my boy Zacha’s skate.
He kicked it up to his stick, then over to Fournier, who fired it back to me.
We weaved the puck through their defense, playing a game of tic-tac-toe, until Hammer drew a defender out of position just enough to open a lane.
I sent a sweet wrist shot straight down the middle to the gloveside. Score.
Johansen skated by, his voice snarled with venom. “Enjoy it now, Landon. Won’t last.”
I pretended to dip my hat his way.
Half the game of hockey was mental, landing a solid chirp, undermining a player’s concentration. Get under the other team’s skin and you killed their rhythm. Game over.
Second period saw the Rangers score on a dirty net battle. The tension cranked up.
The Rangers were tough. We’d be seeing them again in the playoffs and everyone on the ice knew it. And the grudges made tonight would carry over, too. They weren’t gonna win off us with a fuckin’ cheap shot.
Halfway through the third period, we were still deadlocked at one-all with Hammer and two Rangers players battling in the corner for the puck. Johansen kicked my stick aside as we fought for position between the corner and the net.
“Heard my Merri’s got a new man,” he sneered. “One of you losers.”
Took him long enough. I’d been waiting, wondering if the little prick would dare speak her name.
“Didn’t know I was an Arvon boy, did ja?” he said, shoving me hard. “Merri and I go way back.”
He slammed into me again. Asshole was trying to steal the puck, but I pivoted, delivered a solid backcheck to throw him off balance, and regained control.
We circled each other, a silent battle. A quick fake to the left and I exploded past him.
Too slow, asshole! That split-second hesitation was all I needed. Snap shot, blocker side. Goal!
Johansen slid into me, snarling under his visor. “Who’s she fuckin’? Is it you?” He fisted my jersey, pulled. “My money’s on you. You fuckin’ my leftovers, Landon?”
Red clouded my vision. My fist, still gripping my stick, connected with his chest. The Renegade horn blared, celebrating my goal, but vengeance drowned out victory. Johansen swung wild. Gloves hit ice.
My fist found his jaw with a satisfying crunch. Blood spotted his lips but he laughed, the sound ugly and raw. “Touched a nerve, pretty boy?”
I spun him down to the ice, following him down, getting in close. “Keep her name out of your mouth or next time I break more than your jaw.”
Officials swarmed, hauling us apart. They shoved us toward separate penalty boxes. I slumped onto the bench, chest heaving, knuckles stinging.
“Got you figured out now, Landon!” Johansen’s voice carried across the divide. “Guess I didn’t waste my time meeting up with the Arvon washouts last night. Merri’s all they wanted to talk about. Seems our girl’s got a type!”
Fire burned through me, a roar echoing in my ears like a Mack Truck barreling down the highway.
This waste of a jersey was why Merri guarded her heart so fiercely. This was why she wouldn’t commit, why she was so terrified of even giving me a chance. This piece of shit.
But we’d been careful. No one knew about us. Johansen was fishing, trying to get in my head.
Johansen slammed his stick against the glass. “Bet she still gets wild when—”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” The words ground out between clenched teeth. My hands shook with the need to shut him up permanently.
Rage pulsed through me. He thought he could use her against me, play mind games.
But—
It hit me then. Cale was talking shit, nothing more. He hadn’t heard any rumors, or even if he had, he had no idea what was going on with Merri. She’d made her thoughts on him perfectly clear. No way she was updating him about her life.
I sprayed water down my throat, ice cold.
Every muscle screamed to vault this box and finish what we’d started.
But Merri deserved better than watching me lose control.
My gaze avoided the tinted glass above center ice where she worked.
My arms ached to hold her, to shield her from vultures like Johansen who tried to diminish her light.
But Merri Wylie didn’t need a knight in shining armor. She’d carved her path through this sport with more grit and determination than any player I’d ever known.
And so would I. My vengeance wouldn’t be limited to dropping gloves. He wanted to play mind games? I’d bury him. On the scoreboards, in the standings, in every way that mattered.
The penalty box door swung wide. Game on.
Back on ice, I flew past their defense, deking around their center. Johansen shadowed me, his stick work getting dirtier with each shift.
“Heard she’s making rounds in the locker room.” His stick dug into my ribs. “Getting real friendly with the boys.”
My elbow connected with his solar plexus. Clean enough to dodge another penalty, mean enough to leave a mark.
The puck ricocheted off the boards three shifts later. As I moved to snag it, Johansen slammed me face-first into the glass. His fist caught my jaw before I could recover.
Wrong fucking move.
I spun around, flinging my stick and gloves aside. The arena fell silent. Their Golden Boy hadn’t scrapped since juniors, but growing up in Mapleton taught me more than charm and manners.
Zacha and Novak closed ranks, forming a barrier between us and the Rangers rushing in. Fournier locked up their alternate captain, clearing space for the main event.
“Front office loves gossip.” Johansen swung wild. “Wonder how they’ll handle another scandal?”
I ducked, laughing in his face. “You come all this way just to embarrass yourself?” My fist crunched into his jaw.
He dropped to his knees and I followed him down, landing another shot to his unprotected face as his visor went flying.
“Stick to cheap shots and trash talk. Real hockey’s above your pay grade. ”
Officials swarmed but I managed two more solid hits before they dragged us apart. The crowd erupted as linesmen escorted us to separate boxes.
Five minutes for fighting. Small price to watch him shuffle off holding his face like the punk he was.