Page 129 of Brutal Game

Maybe what he was saying made sense. Maybe it didn’t. I had no idea. The red haze hadn’t cleared, and my whole body went stiff with tension.

“I’ll kill you,” I told him quietly, sure he could see the flames reflected in my eyes.

“Crazy,” he said again, but this time he sounded afraid. “Well, I’m getting the hell out of here, Jack. One more chance to choose me and not be a complete idi?—”

With a crack, a beam fell from the ceiling, dropping directly where he’d stood a moment before.

He screamed, trapped by the flaming piece of wood.

“Jack, help me! Help me, son! Get me out of here, I’m going to die! You can’t leave me!”

But I was already moving past him on the stairs. Aviva had to be in his office.

Oh, shit.

Stopping, I walked toward him.

“Oh thank god,” he coughed.

But I was reaching in his pocket to fish out his keys.

“I’m not your son,” I told him—for the first and last time.

And then I was running up the stairs toward his office, heart racing. How much time had I lost arguing with him? Was Aviva still alive?

I couldn’t think that way. I’d give up everything—my team, the Frozen Four, the draft, my future in the NHL. My motherfucking life. As long as it meant she was okay.

As long as it meant shelived.

Behind me, I heard a man’s screams.

Ahead of me, I heard what sounded like a woman crying out my name.

I left him behind, racing toward her, hoping I wasn’t too late.

43

Aviva

Iwas going to die here.

I was going to die in this fucking asshole’s office, tied to his desk. Would I die of smoke inhalation first, I wondered distantly, or would I burn alive? I’d never thought about it before, but maybe the way my parents had died was better. At least it was over fast. At least they hadn’t had to stare their death in the face with nothing to do but think about how they were leaving behind their loved ones to mourn them.

I knew Asher would mourn me. I wasn’t sure he could take another hit. But would Jack?

At least I’d kept him safe.

At least I’d gotten the chance to tell him I loved him.

If only I could tell him one more time…

I pictured him in my head: his dark hair with the short, tight curls, his piercing gray eyes, his little smirk when he knew he’d backed me into a corner I couldn’t get out of. Theway those eyes turned dark with lust, or pain—silver with anger…or love.

He loved me.

He’d told me.

He’d move on and meet someone else and be happy.

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