15. Casper
Ashot fires into my thigh, agony lighting up my leg like the puck pushed a maximum pain button on the back of my knee.
“Fuck!”
“Shit, Cas! You all right?” Kol glides over to where I’m now lying on the ice, holding my leg.
“Yeah. I’ll be good. Just give me a second,” I groan, catching my breath and thankful that the injury feels superficial.
It’ll likely only leave a bruise—a massive one—but it could be so much worse. I’ve taken enough shots like this to know.
Pushing to my skates with Kol’s help, I wince, the stabbing pain gradually shifting to a deep, throbbing ache. Adding weight to it as I glide toward the bench, I curse again as pain lances the back of my knee and thigh.
“That’s what I get for helping the defense out,” I tell Coach Rafferty with a smirk as I hop to the bench, plopping down on the seat.
He scoffs and chuckles. “If you had just stayed in your line and not tried to save a day that didn’t need saving, you’d still be on the ice.”
I chortle, knowing damn well that he’s right. “Just trying to show the new guys how it’s done.”
A deep laugh pulls my attention to the ice, where Ledger and Ransom are skating up, changing out with the next defensive pair.
“Yeah, right. Why don’t you leave it to the professionals, huh?” Ransom teases.
“Professionals?” I exhale with shock. “Where? We’d love to have them.”
Ledger lifts his glove, and even without X-ray vision, I know he’s flipping me off.
“And I was just starting to like you too.” He sits down beside me, spraying water into his mouth and down his jersey. “But I guess we’re stuck together now, huh? Dirty secrets and all.”
“A five-man group that can’t be separated or traded. We sure made it difficult for the organization to ever trade us,” I add, watching the offensive line on the ice dominate the defense like they’re blindfolded.
“They won’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “You know you guys are the face of this organization; they’re structuring their trades around you.”
He’s not wrong.
“That's not to say that you and Ransom aren’t right there with us.” I take the bottle from him and take a drink.
“Oh, we are.” A cocky smirk tips his mouth.
Shaking my head, I can’t help but laugh at his arrogance. But it’s hard to not relate when we’re the same. It’s harder to be mad at the cockiness if his confidence wasn't backed by serious stats.
Our conversation falls to the wayside as one of the rookies dekes out Rurik, who loses control and crashes to the ice. Our team goes wild, cheering and rooting for the rookie, who drives it home, the puck ringing off the post and flying into the net.
This may just be a practice, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t go hard or celebrate our wins. Practices should be so hard that games feel easy. That’s our mentality. That’s why we win.
That’s also why an eighty-mile-an-hour puck made best friends with the back of my leg. If I wouldn’t block that here, how would I know my instinct would lead me right when the time came? Simple—I wouldn’t.
The pain is fading for now, but it’s still incredibly tender as I step back on the ice, setting up at the center dot since the rook scored.
Finny, our acting center, takes the draw, winning it and dishing it back to Kol. We’re going against our fourth line. That doesn’t mean they’re bad; it just means they’re worse than us. Those are two very different things.
Kol passes it to me right before we hit the zone, and I break the blue line, gliding across the ice as I approach the face-off dot. This is my sweet spot, and I wish I had an opening right now; I would fire it home, even with Jojo in the net.
He was one of the hottest goalies—if not the hottest—in the league last season. If anything, he’s only gotten better during the offseason, and he’s been a wall thus far for preseason games.
We’re currently undefeated, and obviously, we’d like to keep that streak going as long as possible. Last season, we beat the record for the longest win streak in the league’s history, setting a new high at twenty games.
I swing the puck back up toward the blue line, and Ledger catches it, immediately passing it to Kol, who’s breaking open and sliding through the slot. A quick redirect, and we score. Or we would’ve, if Jojo hadn’t blocked it.
But the play isn’t over yet because he didn’t hold the puck.
It ricochets weird, hopping on the ice back toward Kol, who swings mid-bounce, batting the puck home. “Fuck yeah!”
After a little celebrating and showboating, we head back to the bench and swap out.
“Ooh, give me,” I shout at Kol, who’s mid-squirting water into his mouth but tosses the bottle to me after. His shot replays in my mind. “Brighton, that shot was fucking dirty, bro.”
With a look of disappointment in his eyes, he clicks his tongue and sighs. “You know, it’s hard, carrying the team on your back sometimes, but it’s a job someone has to do. I’ll sacrifice for you guys. Because I love you.”
Finny winds his arm back and smacks the shit out of his helmet. “Sit down if you can with balls that big.”
“Fuck off, Finny,” Kol snaps, fixing his bucket. “Fucking prick.”
“Don’t be bitchy, Brighton.” Finny scoffs. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
“Oh God,” Kol gasps dramatically. “Can you take a closer look?”
Finny plays it up, looking intently at his face. “Come here.”
Kol sucks a breath through his teeth and grabs his cup, jiggling it. “You’re going to have to get on your knees for the wrinkles I’m talking about.”
“Need a peek under the hood? Spread ’em,” Ransom says, joining the conversation. “I was told, in a past life, I was a doctor. I’m sure a lot of that training is instinct. I probably still got it. Let’s take a peek.”
Kol bursts out laughing, sounding brighter than he has been recently, which warms my heart. “Jesus Christ.”
Ledger steals the water bottle from my hand. “When’s the next craft night?”
“Shh! Shh! Shh!” Bates, Kol, and I hush him.
His eyes are wider than ever as he raises his hands. “What the fuck? What?”
“Do we need to make a damn rule book?” I scoff. “I assumed keeping our group under wraps would be common sense.”
Ledger pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you please get to the point? We’re up soon.”
I lower my voice enough so only our quintet can hear. “You can’t just talk about Craft Club. It’s sacred. You certainly don’t bring it up in front of people we’re never going to invite in.”
Wetting his bottom lip, he bites down, his chin falling to his chest. “If that’s the first rule, is the second to also not talk about Fight Club?”
“Craft Club,” I correct him sternly. “How dare you?!”
“Okay, okay. I got it.” A genuine laugh hits him as he gets to his skates and nears the boards, throwing a leg over. “Ransom, come on.”
Ransom tosses the half-eaten granola bar at the bench as he hops the boards and skates out with Ledger. I know they’re still new to our team, but after the last couple of hangouts outside of the arena, I don’t know how we ever lived without them both on our team and in our friend group.
Practice flies by, and I’d be utterly dead if it wasn’t for the plans I’ve been looking forward to all day long. After a quick shower, towel-whipping fight, and a Minnesota goodbye in the parking lot, I’m on my way to The Schrader House.
I recount my conversation with Cambrie and my mom this morning when I officially announced my relationship.
Cambrie, already knowing damn well who it was, was over-the-moon excited.
I told them both that I still need to ask her if she’s ready to take the next step, but I am.
They were nothing but supportive, same with my dad when I talked with him shortly after.
Their acceptance wasn’t my concern, but rather their desire to immediately invite Mona in.
She’s going to hit it off with them—I already know it. And thanks to the eagerness of my mom and Cambrie, there’s a dinner at my parents’ place tomorrow that will be the perfect opportunity. Now, let’s just hope when she sees who I really am under the mask, she doesn’t run away.
But I doubt that.
Even when I talked to her one-on-one, I could feel that pull between us. She could too; it’s part of why she lashed out so hard at me. Probably guilt for finding me so damn sexy while she had a masked man back at her metaphorical home, waiting in bed.
We can make this work. I believe in us more than anything in the world. I just need her to give us, the real me, a chance.
My phone rings as I wait for her to answer, desperate to hear her voice.
“Hello?” It’s as smooth and beautiful as ever.
“Hey, gorgeous.” I talk to her through my car’s Bluetooth system. “What’re you doing?”
Her voice is flirty and light. “Don’t you already know?”
I chuckle, glancing at my phone screen propped up in the vent holder with the live camera feed of her in clear view. “You know me so well.”
“You’re my person, so it makes sense.” She shrugs, as if her confession didn’t just jump-start my fucking heart.
Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.
“Yeah, that’s great.” What the hell is wrong with me?! There’s no way I can pretend to be nonchalant; it’s not in my DNA. “Please ignore that. I was—”
She cackles, cutting me off. “Oh my God! You can’t fool me, Spooky Boy. I know how down bad you are.” She falls back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling with the biggest smile. “I’m your person, and you’re mine. Simple.”
“I’ve created a possessive beast,” I say timidly, and she giggles again, fireworks exploding in my heart.
“Careful, I might bite.” She chomps her teeth together playfully, the clap of bone sounding through the speaker.
“You can mark me wherever the hell you want,” I tell her honestly, exiting off the freeway.
Lifting her thumb to the side of her mouth, she nibbles on the nail. “Oh, really? Even on your chest with a tattoo gun?”
I have to stop my eyes from rolling into the back of my head. “If you sit on my lap while you do it, my cock buried inside you, then, yeah, my chest is all yours, baby.”
“Hmm.” Her tongue clicks against her teeth. “Sounds like a date.”
“I’ll put it together,” I tell her, my blinker clicking through the car as I wait for the light to finally turn green. I’m almost there.
Once I’m safely on the next street, I glance at the cameras right as I hear her gasp. She’s not lying down anymore, but standing by her invisible door, her ear pressed flush against the wall.
“What’s going on?” I ask firmly, panic sinking into my chest. “Mona.”
“Shh. I’m listening,” she whispers, shutting me up. “I thought I heard voices.”
I’m less than two miles away, and I don’t want to swipe out of this screen and risk losing sight of her if something’s happening. I gun it, my Porsche immediately reacting to the surge of pressure on my gas pedal.
“I’m coming, baby. I’m almost there,” I assure her, flying through the next intersection, the light thankfully green and no cops in sight.
“Someone’s here.” Her voice is a terrified murmur, her breathing heavy on the phone. “Scratch that. There’s more than one person.”