Page 150 of Puck & Her Blades

Luckily, I haven’t had to don my mascot uniform yet and I’m wearing my plain black outfit.

Roarke sprawls behind his large, mahogany desk, which has nothing on it but a glass Blades logo and the thick wooden paddle that he used to beat Jackson in the locker room.

Behind Roarke, flat screen monitors hang from the walls. I bet that he uses them to watch back the games with his team, analyzing their plays, before kicking their asses.

On the far wall is a white touchscreen that’s scrawled with red and blue lines of strategy. Next to it, hangs a photograph of a younger Roarke, when he was the Blades’ star player, holding the Alpha Cup trophy above his head in a victory lap of the rink.

I scrunch up my nose.

I should have known that Roarke would have projected himself as the legend who everyone else had to live up to.

There’s something sad about people who succeed when they’re young and then spend the rest of their life trying to regain that rush of endorphins by getting their kids to repeat their wins.

I should know. My parents were the same.

Yet people like that always end up angry and disappointed

The room is thick with Roarke’s black coffee scent.

Jackson, Zev, and Asher stand in front of the desk. They’re dressed in their hockey uniforms. They look ready to start this game.

Their expressions are cold and dangerous.

They look fucking ready.

Only, it’s not the finals that they’re ready to play.

Their rivals aren’t the Florida Alphas.

Their rival is sitting behind the desk, smugly adjusting his suit cuffs.

“You better have kept to your strict diet,” Roarke says. “Remain properly hydrated. This is going to be a tough game; you know that. The Florida Alphas will be fierce opponents. This is your chance to become legends, rather than nobodies. Don’t fuck it up.”

“We won’t, Father,” Jackson replies.

“That means you.” Roarke jabs his finger at Asher. “Work hard enough out there to break the record of thirty-four goals scored in the Alpha Cup. I took Jackson and you under my roof for a reason. You’re going to make history. Don’t disappoint me, or I’ll make you regret it. You’re already confined to your attic room, apart from games and practice, for a month after the Alpha Cup finishes as punishment for your behavior on the ice, when you claimed that Reject Omega. No more reckless behavior. Concentrate on your hockey. Curb that damn impulsiveness.”

I wince.

Asher slips his lucky charm puck out of his pocket, which bears the signatures of his teammates in silver pen, and fidgets with it.

His expression becomes steely. “Hey, don’t worry, coach. You know me. I’m a goal machine and I intend to make history tonight.”

Jackson deliberately reaches to rest his hand on Asher’s shoulder.

My heart warms.

Roarke’s lips thin. “I hope so because I’m going to provide you with motivation.”

Jackson’s eyes widen with alarm. “I won’t allow you to—”

“You don’t allow me to do anything.” Roarke slams his hand down on the desk. Cygnus jumps. “I summoned you here because I want you to know the consequences, if you don’t win tonight.”

“I can work them out,” Jackson grits out.

Zev glances over at me.

We have a plan.

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