Page 4 of From Ice to Grace
His face turns serious as he shakes his head in denial.
“It’s not cheating,” he says, his voice gruff. “They know we’re not exclusive. I’ve always been very clear about that to every single woman I’ve been with.”
“Oh wow,” I say, unable to keep myself from slow clapping. “That’s just great. Well done. You deserve a gold star for your honesty and thoughtfulness.”
A humorless laugh escapes him as he runs his hand through his overly long hair.
“You see, that’s what I don’t get. You don’t know me. And yet, you think you have the right to tell me how much you despise the way I live my life. When it doesn’t affect you in any way. So why don’t you step off, and leave me alone?”
I can’t answer that question, not unless I give away too much about my own life. And there’s no way I’m going to share my personal heartache with him.
His face twists into a smile as he takes another step closer, the smell of bourbon now unmistakable.
“See, now I’m faced with the only logical reason,” he says, tossing his head back and laughing. “You’re jealous of the women who spend their time with me.”
That’s it. That’s like throwing a whole can of fuel onto the already burning fire that is my anger.
I step into his space, jabbing my finger at his chest.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s because of that self-righteous, pompous, giant ego of yours, that I will never, in a thousand years hate myself enough to spend my time with you.”
“And yet here you are,” he says with a smug smile.
Huffing, I turn away from him. I have no idea why I entered into this conversation. It was clearly a way to get under my skin and I fell for it. You can’t talk to someone who doesn’t care about anybody but himself and his own selfish needs.
Without another word, I head back to the barn, refusing to play his game anymore.
“Lovely talking to you, Snowflake,” he calls after me.
The sound of his deep chuckle follows me every step of the way.
1
DECLAN
Coach is shaking his head while biting back words by chewing violently on his gum. The entire arena can see that he’s less than happy with me right now. It’s the last period in our game against the Florida Panthers, and we’re trailing by two goals. The sea of red and gold Panthers fans are roaring through the arena, some of them pressed up against the penalty box I’m currently occupying.
I squirt water from my water bottle at the camera pointing at my face while I’m sitting in the box…again. Half the time I’m in here for something that’s just basic instinct.
Tell me you wouldn’t duck when a 230-pound guy comes barreling at you full speed. From there, it’s basically physics. I duck, he goes right over me and hits the ice.
But somehow, I’m the guy with the penalty.
The fans pound on the glass, like I’m some kind of wild animal in the zoo. This really is the naughty corner on steroids. I have half a mind to squirt them with water too when the penalty box attendant leans in to let me know my time is up.
We didn’t manage to kill the penalty, but at least the Panthers didn’t score. Mitch, my defense partner and our team captain, shoots me a look full of disapproval. A flicker of guilt twists in my chest. This is his last season and I know he wants to go out with a bang. And since we won the Stanley Cup last year, he won’t settle for anything less this year.
Play resumes, and the opposition switches lines. Just as the Panthers’ center hops over the boards and heads to our net, I follow. He loves popping short-handed goals into the back of the net, which means Nikolai, our goalie, might need some help. Pumping my arms to get more speed, I glide past their right winger.
Then the whistle blows.
Again.
“What now?” I bark, throwing my hands in the air watching as the ref skates toward me.
He makes the signal for high sticking and I scoff in disbelief. Loudly.
“It’s not my fault the man can’t look where he’s going!” I shout at the ref, looking over to where the right wing is clutching his nose like I ripped it off. “He’s exaggerating!”
