Page 49 of Wicked Serve

“We should go back.” The tips of my fingers are going numb; I dig them into my palms. “I’ll walk you home.”

“I can walk myself.”

“I’m walking you back.” Frustration colors my words. I feel ugly, I feel broken, I feel like I’m breathing through a punctured lung. Panic tries to dig its claws in. I have to stave it off long enough to drop her at her house. “I’m not leaving you alone in town at night.”

“Fine,” she snaps. “Not to the door.”

“Obviously not.”

Her eyes are glassy, the ocean on a day without a breeze. I reach for her, but she turns her shoulder, effectively cutting me off. My stomach rolls. If I’m not careful, I’m going to throw up every bit of the ice cream.

“Obviously,” she repeats.

I try to take her hand, but this time, she doesn’t interlace our fingers.

Chapter 23

Nikolai

I rip off my helmet as I leave the ice, striding down the corridor to the locker room. My fingers flex with the urge to hurtle the helmet into my locker, but instead, I take a breath. My father was infamous for destroying equipment after losses, and other than the occasional broken stick, I try not to give in to the impulse. It’s something I can control, even when I want to curse and see something crack for my own satisfaction.

I missed Cooper’s pass.

I was a foot away from where I was supposed to be and fucking missed it, and we lost the game.

0-3 on the season so far. It’s officially a trend, and trends like that don’t get you anywhere near the Frozen Four.

I’m winded, my body aching with every breath. I took a shot to the ribs earlier, and even though my gear protected me, I can feel it.

And I’d do it again, and again, and again. I’ll put myself in front of the puck as much as possible to make a stop, and I’ll go for hard checks that result in true collisions, because if there’s one thing I’ve always known how to do, it’s put my body on the line for the game. I put my mouth on the line, too, trying to keep the chirps fresh, and that’s led to more than a few altercations.

No wonder Grandfather finds the whole concept of hockey distasteful.

The rest of the guys shuffle in. It’s silent, as if everyone is holding their breath, running over their role in the game like I am.

“That was on me,” Aaron says. He’s dripping in sweat, eyes wide. “Fucking misread it.”

I spit out my mouth guard and flop onto the bench to begin the arduous process of peeling off layer after layer of gear. “No. That was my fault. There shouldn’t have been a shot in the first place.”

“But—”

“You were great all night,” I say shortly. “I’m the one who missed the pass in the first place.”

Cooper takes off his helmet, shaking out his hair. We all stink; I’m sure he’s as sore as I am. He glances at me, his chest still heaving.

“It was one play,” he says, but I hear the frustration in his voice loud and clear. When we’re on the ice together, we should be working as a true pair, not misreading each other on simple fundamentals.

I wince as I pull off my chest guard. It’s not terrible—I’ve cracked ribs before, and this is definitely not that—but still, I’m going to request an ice bath. I’ve heard all the jokes about Russians and the cold, but nothing settles me after a game, or even a tough training session, like the shock of freezing water.

“No showers yet,” Ryder says as he comes into the room, flanked by the rest of the coaching staff. “Let’s talk for a moment.”

“That sucked,” says Micah.

Maybe I should be spending less time building him up and more time paying attention to drills with Cooper. I hate the way my mind races after a bad loss, but I can’t help myself. It’s a fair question. There’s another game in a few days, and I’d rather catch the puck in my teeth than lose again.

“It did,” Ryder agrees, carefully tucking his clipboard underneath his arm. “But it’s early in the season. Don’t beat yourself up too much—the mental game is as important as the physical one.”

The guys grumble, but everyone knows it’s true. He goes over some of the high points of the game, but mercifully doesn’t call out me as the reason we lost. Dad would have, though. He was always happy to point out my mistakes in painstaking detail. If I fucked up badly enough, he’d throw my helmet or break my stick himself.

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