Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
The cold hits me first, then the smell. Rubber and sweat, the kind of stink you only get in a rink after too many practices. The rest of my team is already on the ice, warming up in small groups. Coach stands along the boards with his clipboard, and his head snaps up when he spots me.
“Locke. You’re late.”
I don’t bother to respond or apologize. Why? It would be a lie, and he can toss me off the team if he likes. I head for the bench, tightening my gear the way I like it. The routine settles me: the familiar weight of the gear, the bite of the straps against my skin. Finally, I throw on my practice jersey and I’m ready to go. When I hit the ice, the blades catch and I’m off. I deepen my stride, getting low and feeling the burn in my thighs to get them going.
I do two laps to warm up and scan the rink. At the other end, the Ice Crew is off the ice, going over their routines or whatever they do before getting on the ice.
Grant skates up next to me. “How were you gone before I woke up and late for practice?” he asks. I grunt a response, my attention sliding over to Mick at the far end, stickhandling through cones. Joey’s on the boards stretching. And Caleb—Caleb’s laughing with someone, his helmet off, gesturing with his stick like he’s telling a story.
“Oh shit, I know that look.” Grant lets out a sigh.
I skate toward Caleb. No rush. No warning. I come in from his blind side, shoulder down, and slam him into the boards hard enough to rattle his teeth. His stick drops to the ice. The laugh disappears from his face.
“What the hell, Locke?” He shoves at me, but I’ve got leverage, my forearm across his chest, pinning him in place.
“You’ve got a big fucking mouth,” I say. Low. Just for him.
“Are you serious right now? We’re in the middle of—”
“The betting pool.” I lean in closer, close enough to smell his shampoo. “The rumors about the new girls. Who can fuck them first? You started that shit.”
Caleb’s eyes flick to the side. “It’s nothing new.” He’s right, but Madeline is new, and that changes everything.
I drop my gloves. Behind me, I hear the practice stop, blades scraping to a halt, voices going quiet. No one moves to intervene. They know better.
“Locke.” Coach’s voice, sharp across the ice. “Stand down. You just fucking got here—late, mind you.”
I don’t look at him. I’m watching Caleb’s face, the way the color drains from it and the way his hands come up slow and placating. He’s starting to panic seeing how serious and pissed I am.
“It was just a joke, man. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know.” Sure, I may be a giant prick, but I don’t engage in locker room bullshit or dick measuring. I don’t need to.
I grab his jersey, pull him off the boards, and punch him. My fist lands on his jaw with a solid crack I feel in my shoulder. He staggers, catches himself on the boards, and now there’s blood on his lip. He touches it, looks at his fingers, and something dark flashes in his eyes.
“You hit me over some girl bullshit?” He spits pink onto the ice. “She’s not even that—”
I hit him again. This time he goes down, knees buckling, and I follow him to the ice. I catch a stray hit to my cheek from him as we go down. My knee presses into his chest, my fist pulled back. I could break his nose or his jaw. The urge burns inside me.
“Locke!” Coach’s hand comes down on my shoulder, pulling me back. “Enough. Off, now.”
I let Coach pull me up. Caleb stays on the ice, breathing hard, blood smeared on his chin. The whole team is watching. Mick has his helmet off, eyes wide. Paul is already skating over, ready to step in if I go after Caleb again. Grant stands to my left, ready to jump in if anyone else decides to try something.
“Locker room,” Coach says, his voice flat. “Both of you. Now.”
I skate to the bench without looking back. My knuckles throb, split open in one spot, and I flex my hand, feeling the sting. The anger is still there, simmering. Caleb’s words echo in my head. She’s not even that—
I didn’t let him finish. I couldn’t. Then I would have had to kill him.
My eyes go back to the Ice Crew, and they’re all watching me too. But I only have eyes for Madeline.
Chapter Twenty-One
MADELINE
Kory stands next to me with her arms crossed, leaning against the boards. The rest of the Ice Crew gathers at the far end of the rink. Behind us, the hockey team runs drills, the sounds of pucks hitting the cross bar and skates cutting into the ice, reverberating throughout the building. We’re all waiting for Coach Murphy, but no one else but me knows she isn’t coming. I wonder when people will find out she’s missing.