13. Lucian
LUCIAN
On a rehydration break between drills, I’m standing on the ice by the bench with Ronan when Carver’s voice snaps across the rink like a whip.
“Winslow! Are you even listening? Do it again. And try not to screw it up this time.”
Every head on the ice shifts toward the tunnel.
Wren stands there, clipboard clasped to her chest, shoulders tucked in tight like she’s trying to make herself smaller. And Carver…that smug, self-important asshole is looming over her, waving a stack of papers one inch from her nose like she’s a disobedient dog he’s about to smack.
My fists tighten on my stick.
Around me, the familiar sounds of practice fade. The scrape of blades, the thump of pucks, the echo of drills are all drowned out by that single, raised voice tearing into her as though she’s not another human being.
He talks to her like she’s nothing. A nobody. Worthless.
And a dark, broken, violent part of me wants to teach him exactly how wrong he is.
Without giving a second thought to the repercussions of what I’m about to do—thinking things through has never really been my strong suit, anyway—I push off the boards, ready to skate straight for him.
A gloved hand clamps down on my shoulder, stopping my forward momentum. Whipping my head to the side, I glare at my best friend. How fucking dare he interfere when I’m about to dole out sweet, sweet justice.
“Not the time or the place,” Ronan clips under his breath.
I grind my teeth. His calm command pisses me off almost as much as Carver’s mouth does. I shrug him off, gesturing in her direction.
“Don’t you see what he’s doing?! She’s going to be two feet tall by the time he’s done with her. She’s already tiny enough; she doesn’t need him taking more inches off of her.”
Before he can attempt to talk me down again, Silas glides up on my other side. Ever the silent shadow. He doesn’t need words to indicate he’s as furious with Carver as I am. The look he gives him is enough to freeze hell. At least someone agrees with me.
Silas’s jaw ticks once, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am: Carver is a dead man walking. I always knew Silas had that same violent streak in him that I have. The only difference is that he buries his while I embrace mine.
Looks like I’ve found the one woman capable of dragging the beast out of him. Gwendolyn Winslow.
On the other side of the glass, Wren nods tightly, accepting every blow like she deserves it.
Like she’s used to being talked down to like that.
That pisses me off even more. I know for a fact that this girl has already had to deal with more than any person should have to in one lifetime.
The last thing she deserves is shitheads like Dean Carver, whose arrogance is misplaced compensation for his micropenis, using her to inflate their fragile egos.
She swallows whatever she wants to say before rushing off to fix whatever issue Carver was reaming her out over.
However, before she disappears from view, when she’s certain no one is watching, I catch the way her shoulders tremble when she releases a shaky breath.
Her eyes blaze with fire, but her body betrays the vulnerability she works her ass off daily to hide.
My rage spikes, hot and poisonous.
“If he keeps talking to her like that,” I mutter, voice low enough for only Ronan and Silas to hear, “I’m gonna permanently rearrange his face.”
While Silas nods in silent agreement with my plan, Ronan exhales like he expected no less than bloody violence from me but is disappointed all the same.
Still, his gaze tracks Carver as he moves across the rink like a hawk stalking prey.
Ronan might prefer negotiations and peaceful resolutions, but he’s also a hockey player, so he’s not afraid to dive into the fray and get a little blood on his hands when the need arises.
I have a gut feeling that the need is going to arise very very soon.
Carver has no fucking clue that his days are numbered. I’m counting them down one by one, because no one makes Wren flinch like that.
No. One.
Not anymore.
“I’m looking into his whereabouts that night,” Ronan states, eyes still glued on the shitstain.
“Carver’s?” I question, brow creased.
“The way he talks to Wren, always putting her down,” Ronan explains. “Could be that he’s just a jealous dickhead, but you never know.”
Reaching over the boards, Silas grabs the notebook and pen that he keeps on the bench during practice, at hand for when he needs it.
He does attend every game. Home and away.
“Fuck,” I hiss, squeezing a gloved fist around my hockey stick.
We’ve been looking into team members—starting by identifying the whereabouts of the current players, since they are the easiest to track.
Then we’ll look at those players who have graduated.
However, I’d never even considered it could be a staff member who attacked Wren that night.
It would make sense, though. Dean has had it out for Wren since the second she arrived. It could just be because she’s a Winslow and got this internship because of her parents, but equally…
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I hiss, already envisioning peeling the skin from his bones while his sweet screams make my ears bleed.
“First, we need to find out if it could be him,” Ronan reminds me, always the boring head of reason.
“Sure, sure.”
The blow of Coach’s whistle reminds me we are in the middle of practice. I force myself to put all thoughts of murdering Dean Carver to the back of my mind and focus on the game instead of her. Thank fuck anger is useful here—a weapon I can shape and hone. Anger makes me faster. Sharper. Deadlier.
I throw myself into the next drill, taking tight turns and handling the puck like it’s Carver’s head I’m playing with as I slice through cones. My muscles burn, lungs ache, but that burn is the closest thing I have to peace.
On the ice, nothing owns me.
Not memory.
Not blood.
Not pain.
I’m the storm here.
Coach shouts something praising the line play, but I’m not paying attention, already pulling away and powering down the rink. I beat one defender clean, then send a shot flying past the goalie’s shoulder—top shelf. Perfect.
The boys smack their sticks against the ice in approval, and I let a smirk curl my mouth as I circle around the back of the net, performing a little victory dance.
Then I look up, and the smirk tugging my lips slides straight off.
Because instead of focusing on what’s happening on the ice, fucking Evans is talking to Wren.
My Wren.
And not just talking. He’s fucking flirting.
I come to a stop, kicking up ice as I gape at what I’m seeing, certain I’m imagining it. I have to be. Except my vision goes red as Evans leans in, his abdomen flush against the top of the boards like he can’t get close enough to her. Talking, smirking. Fucking dickbag.
And Wren—
She laughs. Fucking laughs at whatever he said to her.
It’s soft, cautious, like she’s unused to doing it, and I hate that it’s being wasted on a sleazeball like Isaac Evans. He’s a manwhore. The team player. And his cocky-as-fuck attitude with mediocre talent has rubbed me the wrong way since day fucking one.
I forget about the ice. Forget about control. My knuckles go white around my stick as I watch the vomit-inducing scene unfold.
Coach’s whistle blast calls for a line change, quickly followed by Ronan bellowing, “Evans! Stop hitting on the intern and line up.”
Evans tosses Wren a wink—my wink, the one only I’m allowed to use—before he skates over.
The smirk he shoots me on the way by?
Yeah. That does it.
We run another drill—a breakout into a three-on-two push—and Evans is on the ice with me. Great. Perfect. Fucking phenomenal.
He skates just ahead of me, showboating with sloppy dekes he thinks look cool. Every few seconds, he cuts his eyes toward the bench where Wren stands, clipboard hugged to her chest. Needing attention. Needing fucking validation.
From her.
And she…she’s watching.
Not smiling this time but still watching. Which is enough.
The ice beneath me feels like it’s vibrating. Or maybe that’s the rage coursing through my blood.
Evans slows up on purpose when the puck swings his way—one-handing his stick like a clown, swagger turned up to eleven. He doesn’t even try to play it clean. He toe-drags the puck between his legs, fakes a spin, then whiffs the shot entirely.
The puck clatters off his skate.
He shrugs, throws his hands in the air like he meant to do it, then drops to one knee like he’s proposing to the crowd.
“Was that for the highlight reel?” someone jeers.
Laughter bubbles up across the team, but it’s hers that cuts through the noise. I hear it even with my helmet on. Even through the blood pulsing dangerously in my ears.
And I see fucking red.
Evans grins like he’s just scored the game-winner. Milking every second of having the attention on him as he tips his stick in her direction.
She shakes her head, still smiling shyly.
That’s what does it. That’s what sends me over the fucking edge. I literally hear the snap of the leash on my restraint as I drop low. The only thing I give a damn about is erasing that smug fucking smile from Isaac Evans’s face and the sound of her laughing at him.
Eyes set on him, I launch myself forward, the blades beneath my feet slicing through the ice as though it were butter.
CRASH.
I slam into Evans with everything I have.
Shoulder to ribs. Timing perfect. Violence pure.
The impact carries us both into the boards with earth-shattering force.
Glass explodes around us, raining down in glittering shards, sharp and gleaming.
Evans flips over the boards, legs flying, before landing with a satisfying thud and an oomph on the other side.
He collapses like a fucking lawn chair, clutching his side and groaning like a pussy, surrounded by shards of plexiglass. Blood beads along his cheek where a piece of glass nicked him. Oopsies.
He groans.
I smile, victorious.
Ronan is on me in two seconds, shoving me back with both hands.