Page 43 of Puck Lust

It was a sign that you need to crush these insane feelings once and for all.

But my mouth doesn’t give a shit about all the things my mind is screaming.

“Because you…” I croak out, my mouth drier than a camel’s ass. “…you make me feel things I don’t understand. And I need to?—”

“No,” he says gruffly before pushing past me. “Don’t fucking say another word. Just leave me alone.”

FIFTEEN

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My temples throbas my blades slash at the ice. The filled stands are a blur of color and sound, but I don’t waste a single second to focus on anything but the puck. Not that it’s helping me at all, not since that last threat I received at the hotel, and another email from Coach Dalton that came right afterward.

My mind is so twisted up in the past, I can barely make a single play. I’ve missed so many damn passes and shots, I’m shocked Enver hasn’t benched me.

So far, the third period looks a lot like the previous two and if it continues, we’re headed straight for another loss. There’s so much tormenting my mind right now, and as if the hotel attack mob wasn’t enough, Carter decided that he’d interrupt my pregame ritual by tearing open old wounds right before we took the ice.

Telling me I make him feel things he doesn’t understand. That nearly blew my goddamn head up.

Is he fucking kidding me?

I had to shut him up before he said shit he can’t possibly mean.

And before he gave me a flicker of hope that would eventually be snuffed out when he realized the implications of his words.

Cutting through the noise in my head, I suck in a breath, the shock of cold air chilling my insides and firing up my resolve as the play resets.

Greyson makes a clean pass to me in the offensive zone. I line up a wrist shot and fire—and the puck hits the Iron Hawks’ goalie right in the chest, bouncing off his pads.

I slam my stick on the ice and skate around the back of the net, kicking up snow as I silently curse him.

Motherfucker.

That goal should have been mine. I need to get my fucking head screwed on or else I’m gonna prove them right—that all this shit will actually break me.

Like I’m not broken enough already. It seems impossible that there’s anything left to shatter.

My leg muscles ache as I try to maneuver through two defenders during the next play, but the puck gets poked away and out of my reach. The Iron Hawks get possession again.

Anger rumbles in my gut. I can’t look at any of my teammates, especially Carter. I bite down hard on my mouth guard, my legs picking up speed, but the near-miss fucks with my head.

This is it. Hockey is my life, all I have left.

If I don’t have this, I have nothing.

The words loop through my mind, echoing between my ears over and over and over again.

I can feel eyes on me, tracking my every move. The guys all throw out words of encouragement, but I can tell they’re forced. Everyone knows what’s on the line today. One loss you can ignore, but two in a row? After what just happened?

Forget it.

And it’ll all be on my head.

Enver’s expression is tight and tense when we regroup for the next play.

I’m the liability right now.

They think I’m about to crack.

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