13. Lucian #2
“What the fuck was that?!” he snaps.
I straighten, breathing hard, eyes locked on Evans, before I snap them to Ronan. “What?” I shrug, nonchalant. “I guess I hit him harder than intended.”
“Harder than intended,” Ronan echoes, disbelievingly. “You shattered fucking safety glass, Lucian!”
Unbothered by Ronan’s scolding, I look past him to where Wren stands, frozen. Our eyes connect. She looks…stunned. One hand still clutches her clipboard. The other covers her mouth.
Her eyes—wide, horrified—flick from the broken glass to me…
And suddenly it’s too loud.
Too real.
The red haze burns hotter.
I don’t know if it’s me, or her, or us, but there’s a crackle in the air, like an impending thunderstorm on a sweltering hot day.
I can’t look away from her, and it appears neither can she.
There’s shock in her stare, sure, but there’s also something more, something that speaks to me, that calls out to the fractured fragments of my soul.
Something that looks a hell of a lot like curiosity. Interest, even.
Subconsciously, I find myself moving toward her before I’m abruptly yanked back.
“What the fu—”
“Get off the ice,” Ronan orders, shoving me toward the locker room. “Now.” He shakes his head, making his disappointment clear. “Coach is going to rip you a new one for this. You’ll be lucky if you see any ice time for the next month.”
Whatever. It was totally worth it.
Coach’s office reeks of sweat, old leather, and disappointment.
“You want to tell me what the hell that was, Caulfield?” Coach growls, leaning forward over his desk like he’s fighting the urge to throw a clipboard at my head. I know for a fact that’s exactly what he’s resisting doing.
I don’t answer. My jaw flexes, arms crossed over my chest. Not in defiance; it’s the only thing keeping them from shaking with the leftover adrenaline.
Carver is here too, of course. Leaning against the back wall like he’s the executioner brought in to finalize the sentence.
“You shattered the goddamn glass.” Coach Wexler slams a palm on the table. “You didn’t just check him; you drove him into the boards hard enough to send him to Medical.”
“Maybe if he’d had his head in practice instead of showing off.” I shrug.
Carver’s eyes narrow at my insolence. “You think your NHL prospects can survive this temper of yours?”
I tilt my head, giving him a droll stare. “You think anyone gives a shit what you think, Dean?”
Coach slams a hand on the desk, and I quickly shut my mouth, dismissing Carver’s presence entirely.
“I should bench you for the foreseeable future.” Coach’s face is carved from stone.
“But you won’t, because I’m the best center you’ve got.”
His eye twitches, and I know I’m close to crossing a line.
If only I could find a fuck to give. I’ve never been good at following the rules.
Equally, I’ve never been good at caring about breaking the rules.
Who gives a shit? Short of getting myself disqualified for the season, I’ve got an NHL offer all lined up.
So long as I play the way I have the past three years and don’t do anything to make the Serpents look bad, I’m set.
There’s fuck all Carver can do, other than talk a big game.
I wait Coach out, and eventually he huffs out a breath, dropping his gaze as he shakes his head.
“You’ll be suspended for Friday’s game.”
“Fine.” It’s what I expected.
“If anything like this happens again,” Coach warns, “we will have no choice but to bench you. It’ll be out of my hands.” His gaze flicks to Carver. “Do you hear me, Caulfield?”
“Yeah, I hear you loud and clear.”
The second I’m out of that office, I move like a loaded gun. I don’t stop at the locker room. Don’t bother changing. I leave the rink with my gear still on. The sweat, the heat, the itch under the pads all add fuel to the fire thrashing in my chest.
Instead, I go on the hunt.
For her.
I track her down in a supply closet behind the weight room, crouched next to a crate of spare helmets. She’s organizing labels or some pointless shit Carver dumped on her—anything to keep her busy and invisible.
Too bad I see her.
Her head jerks up as I step into the cramped space, blocking the exit with my body. Her eyes widen, not in fear, but in challenge.
Good.
This is better than the flinching.
Better than her pretending we don’t exist, like she has been doing ever since her little chat with Ronan.
I know it’s gotten her cogs turning. I catch her glancing our way, and no longer is her gaze filled with a mixture of fear and hatred…
but doubt. Confusion. She doesn’t know what to believe. Who to trust. Herself or us.
If only she would just ask us.
But until she’s ready to face that night, to face the gaps in her memory, the unknown, we’ll wait. We’ll watch over her. Protect her—even from guys like Evans.
“What were you laughing about?” I ask, although it’s really more of a growled demand.
She blinks, holding strong against the anger lacing my words. “Excuse me?”
“With Evans.” I step closer, crowding her space. I’ve been gentle. I’ve held back, but I’m not someone who understands restraint, and I’m about at my limit. “What did he say that was so funny?”
Her brows knit, irritation flashing. “That’s none of your business.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
Fire flashes across her irises, and she stands straighter, her chin tilted up defiantly.
It’s sexy as fuck, and this warm feeling of pride takes root in my chest. Unable to withstand the distance between us, I move closer, needing to be in her orbit.
I move until we are skate-to-toe, my larger frame casting her completely in shadow as the fluorescent lights flicker above us.
“Wait,” she says, realization dawning. “Is that why you threw him through the glass? You could have killed him!”
I roll my eyes. “It was safety glass. So he spilled a little blood; if you ask me, he got off easy.”
“Because he made me laugh?” Her brows are dipped low over her eyes as though she can’t understand my reaction, but she doesn’t see what I see.
The absolute beauty that is her pain and suffering, her fight and resilience.
She’s stunning. I’d throw the whole damn team through the glass just for looking at her if it wouldn’t get me permanently kicked off the ice.
“Because I already warned him once,” I growl, hands curling into fists at my side and eyes flashing with menace.
“You—what? You can’t do that, Lucian!” Unexpectedly, her hands come up to shove at my chest—a futile effort since I weigh double what she does and tower a good foot-and-a-half above her.
Rage paints her cheeks a pretty shade of red that makes me want to piss her off more often.
“I’m not your property,” she snaps. “I’m not your anything. A fact I’ve made quite clear.”
“By ignoring me?” Ducking my head, I bring us face-to-face, forcing her to stare straight into my eyes. “Ignoring my texts. Trying to pretend like I—like we—don’t exist?”