Page 37 of Rush the Edge

I skate in the opposite direction of Daisy with anger trailing me. It’s fucking with my head that she’s on the ice, inmyspace.

I just need to pretend it isn’t her. It’s simple. She’s dressed in a ridiculous devil’s costume; I can’t even see her.

I glance to center ice again. It doesn’t matter if I can’t see her. I can feel her.

I’m cagey at the thought of her sharing the ice with me. It’s fucking with my game-day mentality, and I really don’t like it.

I’m unfocused, and I’m never unfocused.

Skating quickly, I pull up beside her and send ice flying in between us.

“Get off the ice,” I demand quietly.

Even with my gritty tone, I know she heard me.

“What?” Her voice is muffled, but it’s still as sweet as a melody.

Acting as if I’m not standing here talking to the damn mascot, I play around with the puck and send it into the net past Emory. He glares at me. Mid-turn, I repeat myself. “I said get off the ice.”

If she could, I bet she’d stomp her foot at me.

“I’m doing my job. The oneyougot me!” she shouts.

Mistakes were made.

I should have never set her up for that interview.

“Get off,” I growl. “Or I’ll make you.”

Ah, fuck.That was the wrong thing to say.If I lifted her mask, I bet she’d be smiling like a real devil.

“You’ll make me?” she repeats.

My shoulders tense. I grip my stick with so much strength I’m afraid it’ll snap.

“We’ll see about that.” She skates away from me, but I only let myself linger for a few seconds before trying to get my shit straight to play a game that we need to win for playoff points.

Focus, Kane. Fucking focus.

* * *

The game couldn’t have gone worse.

For me, I mean. The team did great. They’re the reason we won.

I didn’t play as well as I typically do, and I know everyone can tell. Most of them will keep their thoughts to themselves, except for a few, like Rhodes and Emory. Rhodes, the veteran of the team, will probably grunt out an insult that’ll piss me off, but I’ll remain quiet because it’ll be true.

“You good? Drink too much last night?” Malaki asks.

I glare at him. “I don’t drink the night before a game anymore, which you know because you live with me.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what you do when I’m not there.”

Malaki’s lucky not to be a part of my rituals, unlike Daisy.

“So, you just get wasted every other night then?” someone mutters.

Malaki starts to untie his skates without making eye contact with me. “Your game was off, so I’m just speculating over here.”

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