Page 57 of On Thin Ice

“Come on, Mal,” Elliott shouted from the other side of the ice. “Stop fucking around!”

Mal’s grin turned shades of evil, and impossibly, he found a new closing speed and shot the puck, a dart off his stick.

Finn hit the ice, half a second too late to deflect it off his leg pad.

“Fuck,” Finn muttered as it hit the net.

Elliott yelled at the other end in excitement and joy.

Zach must have called his name next—Finn couldn’t hear anything but the roaring in his ears—because Ell took off, then, his celebration not slowing him down even a fraction.

He was crazy fast and never bothered to try to hide it, not like Malcolm.

No, he was out for blood immediately.

No matter how Finn told himself it wasn’t personal and this wasElliottand he loved him, the brother he’d never had, it was almost impossible to remember that by the time Elliott took his shot, the puck’s speed tucking it just between his legs as he collapsed down in an attempt to deflect.

“That’s it,” Zach called out, clapping. He glanced over at Finn. “You good?” he asked.

Like Finn was going to say he wasn’t good.

“Fine,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Alright,” Zach said with a nod.

Ivan went next. And he actually did manage to deflecthisshot, making Ivan mutter in Russian under his breath.

The rest of the team went, Ramsey flicking a sick shot above his shoulder, proving why he was so difficult to defend against.Because he wasthatgood of a defenseman, and since he knew all the tricks, he knew just how to get around all of them.

By the time it was over, Finn felt raw and exposed, one big nerve.

Like he was a parody of a goalie, a pretender in pads.

Grinding his teeth together, he didn’t hang around on the ice, heading to the locker room the moment the drill was over.

“Hey, Finn,” Elliott called out but Finn ignored him.

“Just let him go,” he heard Zach say behind him, and that stung, even more, pinpricks of pain digging into the wall of numbness he’d attempted to erect.

Everyone let him go.

He shucked off his equipment, resisting every urge he felt to just throw it.

To take his stick and to destroy something.

Maybe even himself.

He was supposed to be above this,overthis. But he wasn’t. It hurt more, now, when he’d believed he might finally be past it, than it had before.

The only fucking blessing was that his dad hadn’t had to see that—or any of the hockey media who always liked to say that he was only a shadow of a Reynolds, the “lite” version of Morgan.

Didn’t matter that they played different positions. The media liked to chip away at him, anyway, like he was indestructible, but he’d never been.

No matter how much he wished otherwise.

He took a shower, standing in the stall forever, letting the hot water wash down his body, hoping for a benediction or a blessing. Hoping to be washed clean of all his sins.

But it didn’t work.

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