Page 172 of Ice Dance Hockey

“And you do. All the time, baby. But it’s us against the world, right?”

“Damn right.”

“Then we can work together on this one. Fucking love you, gorilla. Merc’s gonna call Jack soon—don’t forget to text me.”

As I hang up the burner, there’s banging on the bedroom door.

“I haven’t seen you and Jack out of that room in hours, Rhett,”Steven’s muffled voice says through the door.

Steven’s our keeper, some prick Dad hired to babysit us and coach our “relationship” in the right direction. Jack and I exchange a look.

He waggles his brows. “I say we show Steven what a good time we are. You’ve got to have a couple of hockey sticks up here somewhere. Mind if we break some shit?”

I’m tempted to break Steven’s nose.

I’ve watched the boy skate, he has real talent. Unless someone broke his knees. He’d heal fine, but he’d never land a triple axel the same way again.

Would Father actually do it? I don’t know. I thought I knew him, but I’ve had rose-tinted, hero-worshiping glasses on. What I do know is that I don’t care how much Logan complains about it, he’s getting a security detail. I should have had one on him in the first place.

“We should definitely break shit, and if Steven doesn’t want to look like a mangled hockey player, he should get out of the fucking way.”

* * *

On The Ice

Casey’s dislike of me isn’t fictional, which is exactly why I can skate over to him during the warmup without someone on my ass about it. “Hey, Alderchuck. How’s the Boston meat market?”

He glares and his teeth crunch into the candy in his mouth, the distinct scent of watermelon hits the air. He’s gonna choke someday, skating onto the ice with candy in his mouth. “Shhh, not so fucking loud.” His eyes move right and up the stands to … is that … yeah, it’s Mitch.

“What’s he doing here?”

“What do you think?” Casey smirks. “That asshole likes my asshole more than either of us want him to.”

“So then why don’t you two?—”

“Don’t even utter what I think you were gonna utter. Have you forgotten the riots of two thousand eleven when Vancouver lost to Boston during game seven of the Stanley Cup final? These lunatics set the city on fire. And yeah, Vancouverites are my people, but they can’t be trusted when it comes to hockey. So long as he plays for Boston and me for Vancouver, the twain shall never meet. It’s a tale of Montagues and Capulets.”

“That’s dramatic, but you do fit the Juliet profile, Alderchuck. Sutter’s no Romeo.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re telling me. But enough about that fucking disaster, what do you want?”

I could pretend I’m here to see how Logan’s doing ... “I just needed an outside face,” I admit instead.

“Fuck, Elkington. You’re gonna make me do this, aren’t you?” he huffs. “Fine, but only because I love Logan like a little brother. These are the pearls of wisdom I’ve got for, yah. Don’t let this defeat you. You want him, don’t you?”

I know Logan’s out in the crowd somewhere. I can’t even look for him because it’s killing me that I let this happen. I have a team of private detectives I work with. I haven’t read a single one of their reports over the past several weeks, lost in bliss instead of protecting the man I love. Maybe if I had, I would have found something that could have tipped me off.

“I want him.”

“If you want Logan, you gotta fight for him, Rhett.”

Did he just call me Rhett?

A blur of black flashes in my periphery and Casey swerves just in time to miss a puck meant for him.

“Fuck you, Sutter!” Casey shouts, his body poised for battle. Right, as far as anybody knows, Mitch is here to see me, and their rivalry is alive and well. Though, I’d say the rivalry part isn’t an act. Beating the shit out of each other is their love language.

“What was that for?”

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