Page 3 of Facing Off
Does he have a violent past? Is it a sign he’s got a temper? Are they his fault?
It’s all bullshit and breaks my heart, because if anyone got to know the real Quinn, they’d see that underneath his scars is a gentle giant with always ruffled hair, kind crinkly eyes, and a chiseled jawline that rivals mine.
When I move closer to Quinn, he talks with that same smile on his face. “Sonya and I grew up different than most, so what might not seem like a big deal to others, matters to us.” Quinn holds his stick like it weighs heavy. “People see my scars and decide who I am before I even say anything. She gets the same thing, but in a different way. People think she’s cold. Rude. Standoffish.” He shrugs. “And yeah, shecanbe all of that, but it’s notallshe is. Just because she doesn’t let people in easily doesn’t mean there’s nothing worth getting to know underneath her grumpiness.”
He skates off like he didn’t just drop a mini-therapy session on my head.
Seriously?
I blink, my jaw tight, watching him go.
Now all I can see is her in the stands, nose buried in some book, tuning me out like I’m background noise.
But what if sheislike Quinn?
Who he was before the Wings.
Quiet. Isolated. Shut down.
Someone who’s just been left alone too long.
“Are we daydreaming or are we playing?” shouts Coach, blowing his whistle. “Get into line.”
I shake my head and skate off, forcing the thoughts in my head to reshuffle. Let’s not forget theactualmission here.
I’m Adrian Hughes. Team captain. Scorer of goals. Breaker of hearts.
Loved, admired, lusted after by all.
And I was asking earlier about Sonya liking hockey, just trying to prove a point.
No one resists me forever.
I grin, ready to win this game like I have so many others before this.
You know what? I’d like to see Sonya try to resist me!
For our next game, we play the Seattle Blades. It’s a gnarly matchup where insults are flying. Our rivalry heats up when deep into the third period, someone crashes into Quinn, knocking him down. A loose fist hits our goalie’s helmet.
I surge forward, putting myself in front of Quinn. A dull roar of blood pumps through my veins as I drop mygloves. “If you want to go after him, you’ll have to go through me first, asshole.”
Lokhov joins me, shoulder to shoulder. “And me,” he grunts.
A fight explodes. Dropped gloves, punches, tackles. It’s a mess, but after some penalties and power plays, the game ends with us barely holding onto our lead.
At the end of the game, as we skate to shake hands, Smith, the Blades’ captain and a douchebag with a punchable face, points his stick at me. “Watch your back, Hughes. Next time we’re coming for you harder.”
I give him a one-fingered salute and grin through my split lip. “It’s flattering how much time you want to spend with me.”
Standing beside me, Quinn watches Smith storm off the ice and laughs. “One day, your cockiness is going to get you into so much trouble.”
“Maybe.” I whistle. “Probably not, though.”
Lokhov’s contribution to the conversation is to sigh heavily.
I mock punch him in the shoulder. “Thanks for having my back out there, best friend, to protect our other best friend!”
“I’m nobody’s best friend,” Lokhov grumbles.
