Page 93 of Cheap Shot
“Uh…who’s that dude?” Darius squints, no doubt picking up on the change in everyone’s demeanor.
I don’t know how to answer his question. A guy my dad kicked off the team for being an asshole? Some rookie that couldn’t hack it? A rookie that Cole beat to a bloody pulp for saying something bad about me? There is no right way to answer this question, especially when it's an impressionable teenage boy asking, so I shrug my shoulders.
Thankfully, this is an acceptable answer for him as I watch Cole, his entire body stiff, his skates planted in place, but his entire frame is coiled like he is waiting to strike.
“Stay put,” I whisper, but he doesn’t listen. Cole pushes off, slowly at first, crossing the blue line without breaking eye contact with Jensen in challenge. They meet at center ice, close enough to brush shoulders, sticks tapping the surface absently. It’s like two predators pretending to be at ease—but everything in Cole is vibrating. I can see it in the angle of his jaw and the way his grip on his stick shifted. I can’t hear a damn thing they're saying, but I don’t need to. My eyes narrow as Jensen smirks, gesturing in my direction.
This is not good. Not good at all.
Cole doesn’t move, not even bothering to turn and check to see if I am okay, but his body goes rigid, his weight shifting forward as if he’s ready to strike. And then Jensen says something low, just for Cole to hear. Jensen doesn’t move as Cole’s grip tightens around his stick even further, his chest rising and falling as he breathes heavily. Every muscle in his body seems to lock in place, like he’s trying not to destroy something.
For one terrifying second, I think he’s going to swing at him, giving Jensen exactly what he wants. I push to my feet, moving toward the ice entrance, my pulse thrashing in my ears. The need to get to him, to stop him from doing something he’ll regret, is strong, but I stop the minute he skates backward, the fury still simmering beneath his skin.
Another player must have alerted security as they move as one, speaking to Jensen. A few moments later, security escorts him out, while Jenson wears a grin like he scored a goal. Cole’s eyes follow him all the way off the ice before he disappears back down the tunnel, and the drills resume.
The drills resume, but the weight in my chest doesn’t disappear. My eyes lock on him as he drifts toward the boards, eyes blank and cold. His every motion is crisp and completely composed, but not his emotions.
“Is he okay?”
My hand hovers near my radio, eyes still on Cole. “No, he’s not.”
And God, I want to fix it. I want to run onto the ice and fold myself against him. Want to make him laugh again, like he did in her kitchen last night when they made pancakes at midnight and ended up half-naked on the countertop. But for now, she can’t do anything but watch and wait, hoping that whatever Jensen said hasn’t sank its claws in too deep.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Cole
The puck slams into the glass with a dull, hollow thunk that vibrates through my chest plate as I move instinctively. My blades cut into the ice with a sharp screech that echoes off the rafters. My thighs burn with the effort, muscles screaming, but my mind is syrup-slow—smeared at the edges like a photograph left out in the rain.
My special red pills run through my system, dulling the static in my head but warping everything else just enough to keep me calm and focused. I move on autopilot, but my thoughts feel distant and just out of reach, surrounded by a thick cottony fog.
Some would say that being around kids and taking pills is a bad idea, but I have everything under control. I didn’t take nearly as many as usual, and I just needed something to take the edge off and keep the pain at bay until after this charity skate session. I’ve been taking part in other more personal activities in the bedroom with M&M, giving my shoulder an extra workout. Not that I’m complaining, but it makes being on the ice a little more challenging. Hence the pills.
“Yo, Hendrix! That backcheck was slower than my grandma!”
The corner of my mouth twitches as I coast to a stop, spraying up a hiss of snow as I swivel toward the boards. “Marcus, I swear to God?—”
The kid beams from his perch on a battered crate like he is holding court. His helmet sits askew, curls bursting out beneath it. His small form is engulfed in a Timberwolves hoodie someone had pulled over his head at some point. Spending time with these kids hasn’t been as bad as I thought. Maybe taking part in this will be more fun than punishment.
“I’m just saying,” Marcus said, projecting like a showman. “You skate like a guy with a girl on his mind.”
The chirps ripple down the line as all my teammates snort. One of the assistant coaches even half chokes on his whistle. I run my gloved hand across the back of my neck, now slick with sweat. The cold air in the rink isn’t reaching me anymore because of all the layers, or potentially the pills. Who even knows anymore?
“One more word and you’re carrying my gear,” I mutter, trying hard not to laugh. If he weren’t giving me such a hard time, he might be funny.
“Joke’s on you! I already carry Logan’s. Got seniority, baby!” Marcus cackles, everyone joining in for a few moments before it goes completely silent.
It feels like the pressure drops in the rink as everyone slides in front of me, a wall of muscle protecting me from something coming my way. No one is speaking. It’s as if all the sound has been sucked out of the arena, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.
Someone steps onto the ice from the far tunnel. No jersey. No number. Just a scuffed hoodie, old gloves, and a strut built in defiance. The man moves with a practiced arrogance, blades whining as they scratch against the surface. And I’d know that person anywhere.
Jensen. I swore to that fucker I’d kill him the next time I saw him. I guess he was dumb enough to give me a chance. My grip on my stick flexes tight, knuckles popping beneath my gloves, as I push off before my brain can catch up, carving a hard arc toward center ice. Instead of the blinding rage I felt last time I was within a few feet of him, I feel like I’m underwater, although that rage flickers beneath the surface—a hot, coiled thing in my gut that the drugs couldn’t quite smother.
“What are you doing here?”
Jensen smirks, his stick shaking in his hand, his eyes bloodshot. “Relax. Just came to say hi. Stretch my legs.”
“You’re not welcome here, and you know that.”
