Page 1 of Arrogant Puck

Chapter 1

My brother’s stick connects with the puck in a violent crack that echoes through the arena.

Time freezes.

Every breath held as the black disk rockets across the ice like a bullet.

The goalie lunges, but the puck slides past him, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thunk.

Archer raises his stick, his eyes searching for mine through the cage of his helmet.

The crowd erupts, but all I hear is the thunder of my own pulse as I rocket off the bench, my skates scraping against the boards.

“Fuck yeah, Archer!”

He glides toward me with the arrogance that runs in our blood like poison. Steam rises from his shoulders in the arena’s chill,and when he reaches the boards, he’s grinning like the devil himself.

“See that?” His voice carries that familiar edge of cockiness that makes coaches love him and opponents want to break his face.

My gloved hand crashes against his shoulder pad with enough force to rattle his bones. “Money shot! Right between his legs, baby.”

A laugh leaves his throat. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I knock my helmet against his. “Don’t forget the plan.”

Our eyes drift across the ice to the opposing team’s bench, where their right wing sits unknowing that he’s our target. Just for shits and giggles. Poor bastard has no idea he’s about to become the star of our little tragedy.

Archer’s gaze slides back to mine, and his grin turns feral. “He won’t know what hit him until he’s eating ice.”

When the second period begins, I’m caged on the bench like a rabid animal, forced to watch Archer weave between bodies. Every stride is calculated, every movement a chess piece sliding into position. The crowd’s roar becomes white noise—there’s only Archer, only the plan, only the beautiful inevitability of what’s coming.

Then Archer makes his move.

He drives his shoulder into the right wing. The kid goes down hard, and Archer’s on him before he can recover.

Fists fly.

Blood sprays across the ice.

Archer’s helmet goes flying, but he doesn’t stop swinging.

Except the kid’s tougher than we thought. He lands hit after hit while Archer staggers backward, blood pouring from his split lip. My hands clench into fists watching my brother take a beating.

I fucking snap.

My skates hit the ice and I’m charging toward the fight, ready to break every bone in that kid’s body. But their forward across the rink winds up for a shot, completely oblivious to the carnage behind him. The puck leaves his stick spinning through the air like a bullet.

Everything slows down.

Archer stumbles back from another punch just as the puck screams toward his head. I see it coming—see the exact moment it’s going to connect—and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

The puck hits his temple with a wet crack that cuts through every other sound in the arena. Blood explodes from the hit, and Archer drops from the impact. His body hits the ice with a sound that will haunt me forever.

“Archer!” A scream rips from my chest.

The arena goes dead silent.

I watch as the kid who was flying his fists at him seconds ago falls to the ground and crawls away in pure panic.

---