Page 59 of Rinkmates

“No,” he says, skating toward me. “I heard you. Jealousy, you said, huh? Hardly.” He smiles as if he finds the situation funny. I startle at this expression—it’s like a déjà vu from weeks ago in the bar against Houston. I had fun smashing his head just because he provoked me. I don’t want to be that person anymore, but the way Derek stands there, threatening me, brings back old feelings with no place to go.

I try to focus on something else—Liora. I nearly missed my alarm this morning. We ended up falling asleep on the couch, cuddling. It felt amazing. Really amazing. I played it cool, pretending I didn’t notice her slip away and practically bolt from the scene.

“I’ve worked hard for every inch of ice I’ve skated on, unlike…well, you.” He slips out of his gloves and drops them on the ice. “If I were you, I’d wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face after slap shots like that. It’s amazing you can score but not everyone has had their game handed to them on a silver platter like you have.” Closing the space between us, he pushes me—fuck, he actually pushed me. “Not everyone had the chance to practice with the best players and copy their style.”

My jaw clenches as I try to block out the insults.

Somehow, I manage to skate backward.

Breathe, Huntington. Breathe.

He saw a picture of Liora and got jealous—it has to be just that. We’re a team.

Skating back to keep the peace, my mind reels. I must focus or risk smashing that puck into his face.

As professional athletes, we’re expected to maintain composure and teamwork; disagreements are common under pressure, but fighting within our own team is unacceptable.

Breathing in and out, shaking off his idiocy—I glance toward Mercer, who’s already standing by the rink with arms crossed over his beer belly. He watches me with a stern face—counting possibilities silently.

Why isn’t he saying anything? If roles were reversed, he would have snarled at me already—fuck, I can’t snap now.

I swirl to the opposite end, my feet gliding over the frozen surface. Desperate to think about something other than those fucking words Derek said, I glance toward my other teammates. Some are stretching and warming up at the edge of the rink. Jayce, Colton, and some rookies do a stickhandling warm-up. They stand around a circle with two pucks and, on the whistle, two players start stickhandling around the circle. But Jayce’s face is tense, watching me, knowing something is wrong. I avoid making eye contact with him. He must have overheard the comments made earlier. But it’s Colton who screams my name.

“Everything all right?” he yells.

I hold an arm up, signaling him with a thumbs-up that I’m fine. I’m not though.

I hate feeling like a child, but I have nobody to blame except myself.

It’s understandable that my friends are concerned. I asked them to stop watching over me on the field because it affects their performances. I understand their desire to protect me andkeep me on the team, but ultimately it’s my decision. If I can’t handle it, then I don’t deserve my spot on the team. And that’s probably why Mercer paired me with Derek today—to toughen me up.

I get ready for the next shot, expecting Derek to come back to his spot, but he’s still fuming, refusing to take his position. “Come on, Huntington, I guess it’s time to tell me. How much did your daddy pay to get you on our team?”

The rink goes dead quiet in a heartbeat, like it’s turned into some eerie ghost town. All eyes fix on me and Derek.

I hear Jayce swearing and the sharp scrape of blades.

But I’m already in a tunnel.

“What did you say?” I growl and skate toward Derek.

He grins, skating up to me as well, throwing his hands up in mock defense. “Just addressing what everyone thinks.”

“Who’s everyone?”

Hatred floods in like a rising tide, drowning out any sense of reason or compassion.

“Ri, let it be. I swear. Ri!” Jayce screams after me.

I slow down my pace, cursing under my breath. I think somewhere in the background, Colton swears in Russian, and fuck, I know I can’t hit him, no matter how much he deserves it. As their sniper, I am expected to score goals and not engage in physical altercations like defensemen or enforcers. Mercer is right. I can’t miss any more games. I’m vital for the team.

“The whole team thinks it,” Derek says.

“Stop lying, asshole,” Jayce yells, grabbing me and holding me back.

“Shut the fuck up,” Colton says somewhere behind me.

“Or what? He’ll have his family make me leave the team? They buy you everything, huh? Skill, a girlfriend, and your own team.” Derek sneers.

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