Page 81 of Knot Your Rebel

When my eyes finally reach the TV again, I notice that the announcers are speaking, or the talking heads, as Tate so eloquently calls them. We’re in intermission. There’s an alpha on the screen speaking with someone. He’s covered in sweat and breathing heavily. My only thought is: do they really not give these guys a break before they make them get on TV and talk? Apparently not. Although, he doesn’t seem like he minds too much.

They ask him about the game and what he thinks the team needs to do going into the next period. He chats about better defense and a few other things. Before I know it, he’s heading back to the locker room to join his fellow teammates as they relax and prepare for the next period.

“What is it about hockey?” I ask, seemingly out of the blue. I’ve never asked Tate before.

He shrugs. “There’s just something about being on the ice. A certain peace maybe. Like when you go to the rink before the game and it’s so quiet. It’s just you and the ice. But then… the arena starts to fill up with all of these people who come to see us. Our loyal fans, who will pay money to see us every week, even if we lose. It’s like being on a stage, I suppose. The adrenaline is going, the crowd is cheering, thousands of people are shouting out our names or singing along to whatever ridiculous song is playing through the speakers between plays. Being on that ice, getting to play the sport, I love… Sometimes I look out at the crowd and ask how this is my life.”

“Ya know… they say goalies are the craziest ones on the team because who else wants a puck coming at them going ninety miles per hour when you’re the only thing standing between the puck and the net.”

He smirks. “We are crazy, but we’re also good at what we do. Take Drake and I. We’re a team. There’s no I’m-better-than-you competition. If he wins a game, I win. If I win a game, he wins. We’ve been playing in the same leagues since we were teenagers. It takes a certain set of skills to be a goalie. Hand and eye coordination, determination, and tons of practice. Plus a desire to do better, to learn everything you can about your craft. Not just for yourself, but for the team. When I skate out onto that ice, I’m playing for my teammates, my coach, our fans, not just myself.”

I lean into him, whispering low into his ear, even though no one else is here. “I know all about your hand-eye coordination skills, and I have to admit, they are pretty good.”

Fuck, there I go again, acting like a horndog.

He turns his head to greet me and takes my lips in a forceful kiss. He tongue pierces my lips and entwines with mine, dueling for command. Something I don’t give up so easily.

The sound of a blaring whistle pierces through the haze of lust encircling us. I didn’t even realize the game was back on. Tate is instantly distracted by the fight breaking out on camera between a couple of the Hellbenders and Wolves players.

“Fuck…” The word is uttered from Tate’s mouth, and I don’t see what he’s referring to until the refs break up the fight happening right in front of the goal post. The goalie is on the ground, not moving. Reality hits like a ton of bricks. That could be Tate one day, and the idea that he would ever be hurt has me wanting to run.

“What’s wrong?” I ask Tate as if he’ll know the answer just by looking at the screen. The refs have officially moved the players away from each other and are escorting them to the penalty box to wait out their time. They aren’t happy, still yelling at each other, even though they’re in their own separate boxes.

My mouth hangs open as I watch everything before me. There is a stretcher rolled out onto the ice, heading towards Drake. My heart is in my throat. “Is he going to be okay?” It’s not really me asking anyone in particular.

The guys huddle around their downed goalie, watching on as the medical team inspects him. A few minutes later, he’s coming to. Some of his teammates help him up and assist him getting back to the bench, where he then proceeds to head back down the tunnel to get checked out.

The other goalie for the Hellbenders now has his helmet on, and he’s headed toward the goal. Stopping in front of it, he does a weird little hand sign, touches each of the goal posts, and then does some sort of religious sign. He stretches before shuffling back and forth on the ice. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s scuffing up the ice around the goal to make it less slippery. Doing that lets us get around easier when we’re making saves.” My head nods in understanding. It makes sense.

“What happened with Drake?”

“I’m sure they’ll let us know once they find…” His words are cut off when the announcer comes back, stating that Drake has suffered a concussion and won’t be back to the game tonight. I have to wonder what happened.

As if the TV knows exactly what I’m saying, it starts a replay of the shot. It hits him right in the face mask, knocking him out cold. That’s got to hurt.

“Well, shit. That means he’s going to be out for a couple games. Concussion protocol and all that.”

“So, that means you’ll be playing?”

He grins at me. “Yep, little one, you finally get to see all of this in action.”

A snort slips out as I shake my head. “So cocky.”

“You love it.” And, dammit, he’s right, because I absolutely do.

thirty four - tate

. . .

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s the four letter word that keeps blasting its way through my brain. Drake’s out. Drake has a concussion, which means that he’s going to miss a few games. And Rebel’s heat is coming up. Fuck. My. Life.

I pull up the group chat that I rarely look at after the game ends. The guys are all chatting about what happened. About how Jackhole, aka Jackson Fleetwood, from the Wolves smacked the shit out of that slapshot, and then laughed when Drake got knocked out cold. Hence why Arden went after his ass.

Sin: Still can’t believe that fucker. Is he that fucking dense, thinking no one would go after him?

Axel: I still think he’s compensating for something. You know…

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