Page 284 of Well Played

My ankle smarts, but I know it’s good to go, so I spin on the spot to glare at the unwelcome distraction.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I call out as—ugh—a hockey player in full gear steps out into the ice. “The rink is closed for private practice. Can’t you read?”

“Yeah, about that…” he calls back before realising that I probably can’t hear him over the music. He makes a cutting motion to his neck, and with a huff, I glide over to where my phone’s resting on the side to silence the track.

Hands on hips and unimpressed, I turn to him once more.

Holy shit, he’s tall. And wide. Stacked. Built. Whatever you want to call it, he absolutely dwarfs me, even with the added inches of my skates.

Doesn’t intimidate me, though. I’m used to having to deal with self-entitled puck prats who have taken one too many knocks to the head.

It’s hard to tell beneath his helmet with chin guard and the beastly beard that he’s sporting, but I swear he’s smirking at me. He’s also not wearing the university’s colours, so I’m not even sure he should be here.Who is he? He’s clearly not on the team, and I don’t recognise him at all.

“What?” I demand. “You shouldn’t be out here. I booked the ice. This time is mine.”

The expression in his eyes morphs. I’d say his eyes were quite nice if they weren’t currently narrowed at me in anger. What’s he got to be angry about? He gate-crashedmysession!

“Hi, princess. Name’s Tarak.” He flashes me a cruel smile, more of a sneer. “You’ve booked all the available slots since I got here.”

“So?” I shrug, even though a tiny sliver of guilt slides down my throat. The new school year hasn’t started yet, so hardly anyone is on campus, and those slots were there for the taking. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

“So? Hockey tryouts are today! I’ve not been able to practise because the rink’s been booked solid… by you!”

Okay, yeah, he’s really, really mad. But it’s not reallymyfault.

“You’ve had plenty of time to practise. Maybe don’t leave it until the last minute next time.”

“I just flew in and jetlag’s a bitch. Apparently, just like you.”

That makes me see red. How rude can you get, coming here, disrupting my session, distracting me with frankly dangerous behaviour, and then having the audacity to callmea bitch?

In anger, I grab the puck out of his hand and take off across the ice with it. I shout over my shoulder, “If you can catch me and get the ball off me, the ice’s yours!”

“It’s called a puck, darling,” he drawls, and that’s when it registers that his accent isn’t from around here. His comment about jetlag makes more sense, but it still doesn’t give him an excuse to be so hateful towards me.

“Whatever, sunshine. You’ll never catch me if you just stand there!” I laugh as I skate circles around the rink, the speed making me smile as he huffs and puffs to catch up with me.

I toss the puck in the air and catch it, still spinning and twirling around the rink, and speeding up whenever he gets close. The more irate he gets, the funnier I find the whole situation. Or maybe I’ve just been overdoing it, and I’m slightly hysterical. As I near the end of the rink, planning to execute a sharp turn, I’m hit by a wall of bricks.

My body crashes into the Perspex screening, and the air leaves my lungs with a whoosh. Before I can crumple to the ground, I’m pinned in place by his hockey stick across my chest.

He rips his helmet off and drops it to the ice with a thud. His expression is murderous as he reaches out to snatch the puck from my hand.

“Later, darling. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

5

Tarak

Shit.I really shouldn’t have body slammed her like that. She’s so tiny. And fast. I just… saw red and lost my cool. It’s why they called me the Bull back home. Not that Rhys knows that. I worked hard to keep my temper under wraps while he was checking me out and putting me through my paces. But today I just… snapped.

I drop my stick from her chest, worried that it might leave a bruise, and pocket the puck, then I turn away from her and skate off.

I don’t make it far when she hisses in pain. I freeze, torn. Shit. Did I hurt her? A second later I hear the scrape of her skates on the ice, much slower than she was moving a minute ago, and regret spikes through me. I should check on her, but, fuck, if she’s hurt, I might just lose it.

My eyes flick to the clock.

Less than two hours before tryouts.

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