Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Colt
The crack of the stick is a sharp, comforting sound—conjuring memories of early morning practices, so cold that the glass was fogged up and our toes went numb halfway through our ice time.
But lost in my memories isn’t where I need to be right now.
Not back to my ten-year-old self.
Not back to my parents forgetting to pick me up so I walked the miles home, lugging the bag that seemed to weigh as much as I did.
Until a teammate forgot something at the rink and after they circled back to get it, their mom saw me walking, realized what I was doing.
For the rest of that season, I had a ride—both to and from practices and games.
The sting of the slash across my hands snaps me into focus.
I’m working, and yeah, it’s work that’s playing a game (a game my parents can’t be bothered to attend even though I got them prime tickets near the glass), but it’s a game that made it possible to pay for Blake’s care, to pay off the second mortgage on their house they took to cover the expenses before I started really getting paid the big bucks.
And they didn’t come.
Not tonight. Not yesterday. Not so many times before.
The whistle trills just as the fucker from the other team slashes me again, and the my-dick-is-bigger-than-your-dick jostling and mind games that take place before each and every face-off snap something in me tonight.
I shove the fucker—hard—sending him to the ice, ass over tea kettle.
“Whatcha doing down there, Ambrose?” I smirk at the youngest of the infamous Ambrose brothers.
Lex is new to the league, and while he’s talented like all of the Ambroses, he’s also got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. Far wider than his talent allows for.
Now if he could play like his older brother, Ace…
Well, I’d have no hope of knocking that block of muscle over.
“Fuck you,” he growls, but I’m already starting toward the net, Lake having won the face-off back to Riggs at the point.
It’s not a pleasant place to be, their defense doing their best to clear out the crease and give their goalie an unobstructed view of the puck.
Which means I’m shoved and punched, pushed and slashed.
I dig in my skates, do my best to keep my feet under the onslaught, to give Lake and Riggs time and space.
If they’re busy with me then my teammates have room to work.
So, I put those hours in the weight room to good use, and I stay in place as the play develops.
Riggs passes the puck over to Storm, who carries it down into the corner, buying time, looking for an opening. He flicks it back to Lake, who whips it around to the other defenseman at the point. That’s when I break loose, freeing up space, getting open for the pass that whips my way.
I accept it on the blade of my stick, turn sharply to flick off little Lex Ambrose then drive to the net.
Their goalie isn’t giving me much room to shoot and I search for an outlet, for space to make a pass.
When that doesn’t magically materialize, I maneuver behind the goal, protecting the puck as I scan and—
There.
The slash to the back of my leg takes me down to one knee but I get the pass off to Lake then jump up and keep moving.
He taps it back and I lose it for a second, having to dig it out from the boards.
But I manage to regain control and then I’m cycling again, grinding out some space as Storm slides in behind me.
With a grunt, I flick it over to him and he moves like he always does—like liquid lightning—squirting between two players, cutting to the net.
I follow him…only it’s not to provide an outlet for a pass or a screen on the goal.
This time it’s to be a spectator.
Because Storm has this.
He dekes around one player, drops his shoulder and barrels his way through another and winds up…
But he doesn’t take the shot. He fakes it and, in truly devious fashion, slides it over to Lake.
Our captain doesn’t hesitate.
He buries that fucker into the back of the net.
There’s a moment of quiet—something that seems to happen after every goal, something that seems impossible in a space housing more than twenty thousand people, but it does.
That heartbeat of hushed silence.
And then…
Not cheers like we’d have at home.
Though we do get a few interspersed amongst the groans and boos.
I’ll take it.
Because those groans and boos are fuel for more goals, for securing another victory, for keeping our foot on the gas pedal and not letting the Rattlers find a foothold to get back into the game.
For now, though, I’m skating over to join Storm and Lake in their celebration.
“Fuck yeah!” I clap Storm on the back, bump Lake’s fist.
Then we’re all skating to the bench and I’m thinking about how to celebrate the win with someone else, someone far prettier (though I know more than a few people would dispute that when it comes to Lake, considering all the underwear modeling he does, ha).
Last night was the greatest form of torture.
But it was also one of the best of my life.
In fact, it was so great and I’m so focused on the knowledge they’re only going to get better as Kylie trusts me more and more, I don’t feel him come up behind me.
Don’t sense the little fuck that’s Lex Ambrose winding up.
Don’t sense the stick coming toward my head.
But I do feel the pain that explodes through me.
And sends me down to the ice.