Page 126 of Pucking Revenge

Sebastian’s a nonissue these days. I barely speak to him when on the ice, and I never speak to him off it.

I surprised Sara by flying her family up for the holidays. If I have it my way, we’ll spend every Christmas with both families under the same roof. While they were in town, we made sure Ethan got to experience another Bolts game. The smile affixed to Sara’s face the whole week they were in town was priceless.

Liv gave birth to the twins two weeks ago. We all breathed a sigh of relief when Beckett didn’t immediately start calling them Thing One and Thing Two—or even worse, Girl One and Girl Two.

June “Bug” and Maggie “Mae” were born prematurely but spent less than two weeks in the NICU. Now they’re the center of Beckett’s world, right alongside their older siblings and Liv.

Late February in hockey means we’ve all got our heads in the game. Playoffs are around the corner, trade deadlines are looming, and now is when the exhaustion can easily set in if we’re not careful.

We’re facing New York at home tonight. It may be late in the season, but there isn’t even a hint of exhaustion in Boston. We’re hungry for another cup.

Aiden jumps up onto the bench and belts out “Bolts’ Paradise,” his unique version of “Gangsta’s Paradise,” by Coolio. When he’s done, we head out of the locker room, focused and with our blood pumping, ready to kick New York’s ass.

The chirping starts early. Vin is in Aiden’s face from the moment the puck drops.

Aiden tries his best to brush it off, but he gets aggravated quick. War tries to interject, slicing his stick between them multiple times, but it’s like Vin and Aiden don’t even see him.

My little brother doesn’t fight, so whatever that ass is saying to set him on fire must be bad. McGreevey and Parker are pure muscle tonight, keeping New York’s offense out of the crease and making my job slightly easier.

It isn’t until the third period that New York gets even close to my net. Naturally, it has to be Vin. The cocky motherfucker comes at me, but McGreevey is on him, and when he steels the puck, instead of chasing after him, Vin allows the center and winger to duel it out.

“How’s the girlfriend?” he yells at me.

I keep my focus on the puck and the puck alone rather than acknowledging him. During the game, not even Sara can pull my focus. I’m certainly not going to let this asshole do it.

When I don’t reply, he skates closer. With a huff, I push him back out of my net. What the fuck is this guy doing? Is this a play?

Refusing to let his antics get to me, I keep my attention fixed on the guys who are still fighting over the puck in the corner.

“You think I can have a go at her?” he jeers.

I grind my teeth and bite back a growl.

Ignore the motherfucker. He’s not worth it.

The puck breaks free, and Parker sends it to Aiden, who’s hustling down to New York’s net.

“Game’s over there,” I taunt, repositioning.

Instead of hauling his ass toward the action now that his net is in play, he sticks far too close to me.

“Come on. Just a taste. It’s a family rite now. First it was Uncle Seb, then you. I’m sure Gavin’ll be itching to hit that soon. It’s only fair that you let me test her out before that.”

It’s not his taunts that get me. Guys will say all kinds of shit to rile the goalie. It’s not even his nasty insinuations. It’s his knowledge of the history between Sara and Seb. The only way he’d know is if my uncle told him.

Why the hell would he go around talking about her like that? Did he really tell his asshole nephew, of all people, that he cheated on my aunt and slept with my girlfriend?

Something deep inside me snaps. My vision goes red, and rage takes over. I heave him forward, out of my way, and skate for the bench, pushing off the ice with all my strength.

As I approach, the eyes of every coach are bugging out. They’re hollering and waving, and then the refs are blowing their whistles like crazy.

But when I set my sights on my uncle, the chaos disappears and time ceases to exist.

Anger floods my blood, a dark poison taking control, spurring me on and pushing me forward. Strangling any logic out of me until all I want is my uncle’s blood dripping from my fists. I drop my stick and toss one glove to the ice, then the other, flying toward the Bolts’ bench. My helmet gets tossed last. In one fluid movement, I hop the boards, the weight of my gear not even a factor.

“You motherfucker!” I roar when he’s within swinging distance.

My uncle doesn’t have time to block the first hit. In fact, his eyes go wide like he didn’t expect it at all. He topples to the ground under the force of the blow.

---