Page 58 of Stick It
Hurricane.
Menace.
Thorn.
What is with these guys giving me less-than-flattering nicknames that make it seem likeI’mthe troublemaker? Why do I need a nickname at all? Using my name is perfectly acceptable.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down, huffing a laugh as I read Wren’s response.
Wren
You lost?! That’s all you have to say to me after 11 hours of silence? I can’t believe you made me wait all night for a measly two-word response. Don’t you understand the meaning of play-by-play?
I’ve barely finished reading when another message from her pops up on the screen.
Wren
And don’t think you can get away with not telling me how it felt to go up against your old team.
I grimace, a shiver rolling down my spine at the memory of Lucas towering over me,threateningme. How did I not see what a grade-A asshole he was?
Except, no, that wasn’t the case. Iknewhe was an asshole, but when he stopped being an asshole to me, I was foolish enough to think I was privy to another side of him—a soft, sweet center that he didn’t show anyone else. I was naively stupid enough to think I was the exception. That I was special.
After losing the most important man in my life, the one who made me feel like I was his everything, I wanted to be something to someone else. I wanted it so badly that I ignored all of Lucas’s red flags, eating up every crumb of attention he gave me like I’d spent months starving at sea.
I should have realized I could never recreate something so unique and special. Especially not with someone so spiteful and vindictive.
Ignoring Wren’s comment, I slip my phone into the pocket of my shorts and glance around. It’s only then that I realize most of the team has arrived. Jax and Ethan are seated a couple of chairs down from me in the same row—closer than usual. I frown slightly.Strange. Normally, they’d sit nearer the front.
Coach strides in, a clipboard tucked under one arm and lips set in a grim line. “Last night wasn’t great,” he bellows, getting straight into it as he levels his gaze on every single player in the room until we all fall silent, listening to our leader. “But there’s no point in wasting energy crying about it. What wearegoing to do is learn from it.”
He’s interrupted when the door slams open, and Kyle stomps in. I immediately note the dark scowl on his face, and the reason for it…
Kyle Reed has one hell of a purple-black shiner.
The room bursts into life.
“Jesus, Reed, what happened to your face?” Matthews jeers.
“Fall on your ass and hit the boards too hard?” another player teases.
“Did you finally mouth off to the wrong guy, or is that just your new makeup routine?”
The comments come from all corners, the laughter sharp and quick, but Kyle ignores them all, his expression thunderous as he sinks into a chair beside Finn at the front of the room.
“Nice of you to join us, Reed,” Coach says dryly.
Kyle doesn’t reply, just slouches lower in his chair and crosses his arms like a sulking toddler.
My gaze flicks between him and Jax, whose face is impassive as he stares straight ahead. But the longer I look at him, the more I’m convinced—Jaxgave him that black eye.
Coach claps his hands once. It’s enough to have everyone settling down and focusing on the front of the room once more. He clicks a button on the remote in his hand, and the projector flicks to life, displaying a paused frame from last night’s game. “Here’s the first breakdown,” he says, pointing to the screen. “This play right here—lazy. No other word for it. If we’re not getting sticks on the puck in the neutral zone, we’re giving them a free pass to set up their offense.”
He goes on, dissecting the game piece by piece. I try to focus, to soak in his critiques and make mental notes about what I need to improve, but I can’t stop glancing at Jax.
It’s during one such glance that I feel eyes on me. I stiffen in my chair, subtly scanning everyone else in the room, but no one else is looking this way. They’re all facing forward—toward Coach.
It’s then that I feel the prick of awareness on the back of my neck. Looking to the side, I notice that Griffin is still slouched in his chair behind me—the only one in the back row. However, he’s not intent on Coach, but onme.
