Page 99 of Break the Ice
“Where are you, Sugar?” I growl on another voice recording. I’ve strode down the street minutes after nine p.m., wandering the block like some lost fucking dog. “Things are still a mess between us. But just respond, alright? Before I do something we’re both probably going to regret.”
“You’re in a lousy mood, Alpha. Check that at the door ‘cuz the last thing we need is for you to bring all that on the ice,” Coach Oates rants. He’s wearing his worst windbreaker, the worn-down 1998 Stanley Cup Champs one with our old logo. “We need your head in the game for our revenge match with the Trojans tomorrow night.”
“Here’s an idea, Coach,” I say in the middle of securing my shoulder pads. “Maybe you should consider lecturing the blue liners sometime. Anybody with two working eyes can see defense is our weak spot. Yet Philly and his boys act like little princesses and you let them. Want to win in our revenge match against the Trojans?” I stand from where I’m seated on the locker room bench and tower over him by more than a head. “Hold your fucking defense accountable and leave me the hell alone.”
“You won’t talk to me like that, Alpha! I don’t care how good you are!”
“I just did. See you out on the ice, Coach.”
I tug my jersey over my head and grab the rest of my gear to finish changing on my way to the rink.
Practice kicks off with a red-faced Coach Oates bristling about teamwork and togetherness. Half the team blinks at him like they’re drowsy and about to nod off. A couple others stand around looking self-righteous, like they’re above what he’s lecturing us on. Stowers and Gilliam take notes from their leader even though Morasca’s still on a leave of absence from the beatdown I gave him.
The whistle blows and we start off with passing drills.
I’m up, along with the rest of the forwards.
The puck shoots across the ice as we pass it continuously between ourselves. We go back and forth, keeping the tempo high and our stick work impeccable. Our one-touch passes are so smooth that the puck’s nothing but a blur. It might as well be trapped inside a pinball machine the way it crosses from side to side down the ice.
Kai skates several paces ahead of me and Trent, setting himself up at the goal line. I slow enough to make the final pass his way. He takes the shot, sending the puck flying into the net.
It’s the first of many. We work through another round of lightning fast touch and passes. It’s all in having good instincts, being fast, and knowing how to handle a stick. By the time we’re coming up on the crease, I’m the guy that receives the final pass. My swing packs power as my blade connects with the puck. I turn away from the goal before I even see if it lands.
Everybody else’s reactions let me know it has.
Eventually, we move onto endurance. We break up into our usual lines and do a drill known as forward and backward. In our groups, we skate forward across the ice to the goal line, then backward toward the blue line. Rinse and repeat until we’re on our eighth round and going strong, muscles burning, cold sweat pouring, racing to keep up with each other.
It’s a sprint on ice skates by the end of it. We’re so damn competitive that nobody wants to come last.
Least of all me. The MVP on the whole damn team.
So when I fumble during the last stretch and almost trip over my own damn skates, I’m fucking furious.
I’d zoned out for a couple seconds. My mind wandered. Thoughts about Marisse filled up my head and my heart twinged inside my chest.
Like some fucking lovesick fool.
The realization had been followed by a torrent of fury. Then I’d broken concentration again and come crashing down to the ice. Everybody else from the first line that was racing me stumbles to a sloppy halt.
Coach Oates tosses his clipboard on the ground and screams, “DAMN IT!”
If I was pissed the split second before eating ice, I’m fuming by the time I get up. All eyes are on me as I spit out my mouthguard and start for the exit.
Coach Oates tries to step into my path, but I shoulder him out of the way. He slips, slides, then eventually falls flat on his ass on the ice.
“Alpha, get back here!” he yells.
I throw up a middle finger without even turning around. I won’t be coming back for the rest of the afternoon.
Nor should anybody want me around when I’m like this.
I’m a ticking time bomb. My pulse thrums heavy and fast in my neck. My hands itch for destruction and I feel like I’m about to tear the first living thing I come across to pieces. These violent urges of mine used to be easy to control—I used to use hockey as a means to expunge it from my system.
Over the past few weeks, it’s become damn near impossible.
The mess I’ve been caught up in with Marisse has stained every aspect of my life like a spilled jar of ink. I can’t get the woman out of my head even as I urge myself to let her go. Move on and walk away.
But it’s like we’ve unlocked some door to another world that can never be closed again. The woman drives me crazy because she’s the one I want. We’ve been through so much that at this point we’re fucking bonded. How does she not see it?
