Page 73 of Crossing the Top Line

I sigh and shake my head. “It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that he was harassing me and Rachel for most of last season. We wouldn’t sleep with him, and I recorded him trying to pressure me into it and showed the tape to management. He was already on the trade block before that, but when he found out, he went ballistic on most of the back-office staff. A lot of really terrible things were said, so none of us were sad to see the back of him,” I explain, summarizing as best as I can before Dallas can overhear.

Three perfectly harmonized growls surround me, making goosebumps rise on my skin. My primal mind wiggles in satisfaction, basking in the protective alpha energy around me. But when Oli tries to take a step to follow after King, I have to grab his wrist. They can be protective all they want, and even yell and scream and argue, but fighting off the ice can get them suspended for the rest of the season.

Thankfully, the boys have no choice but to drop it when the captain notices us at last, inviting us to join him for lunch at a place nearby. I know this probably won’t be the last I hear about this, but I’m glad to have an excuse not to discuss the matter any further. Tristan is full of hot air, and he’d be stupid to test his luck.

Theborderlinemanicenergythat’s been swimming in my veins since morning skate has me shifting restlessly in the line outside the locker room as we wait to take the ice. Warmups were calm enough, but no one is stupid enough to start shit that early in the night. Even still, I definitely noticed how Tristan King kept looking at me any chance he got. Kemper and Stevens, the only two guys I’d recognized among King’s cronies, spare a glance at me whenever we were close on the ice, but neither of them makes any move to explain or apologize for the shit their teammate started.

Even if Tori had been sparse on the details, I’d heard enough to cement my resolve to knock at least one of Tristan’s teeth out tonight. And judging by the way Oliver’s nearly vibrating with barely controlled rage behind me, I’m not the only one.

We get the signal from the arena staff and we’re out on the ice, the house lights low as colored spotlights dance around the ice and up over the stands. I glance up at the press box, relieved to see Tori in her usual spot. I’d been afraid that she’d be working down in the tunnels tonight like she did in Ottawa, but as long as she stays up there, then I can focus on kicking the metaphorical shit out of my old team.

Coach gives me a nod as we skate back to the bench, and I swallow. This will be the first time I’ve taken the opening faceoff, and I can’t honestly say that it’s an accident it’s happening here tonight. Oliver and Eli join me and the Pair of Ovs on our blue line for the national anthem, and it takes most of my focus not to glare at the back of King’s curly head and actually look up at the flag in the rafters. The singer they’ve booked for tonight is better than some of the previous ones, but she still drags out the song into a dirge. After what feels like an hour, the crowd cheers and the house lights come up, turning the ice bright white under my skates.

“Who shat in King’s Cheerios?” I hear Evgeny mutter as he skates past me into his position.

“Guilty as charged, Geny,” Eli tosses out, and he shoots me a grin that’s a little too savage to be fully joking.

Unable to delay any longer, I make my way to center ice, leaning down until my stick is hovering just above the ice. I smell Tristan before I hear him, a strangely putrid stench of mushrooms and spinach with a hint of sharp balsam wood. Like someone threw a plate of pasta onto a compost pile. It’s a wonder I didn’t catch it before when he was in my face. He leans down, our faces level, but I refuse to look away from the ice.

“Hope your little fuck toy likes watching me whoop your bitch ass tonight,” he mutters, barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

I growl, but I won’t let him get under my skin. He’s too busy snickering at his own joke that he misses the whistle, and I win the first faceoff with ease, passing the puck backwards to Voronov before shoving past King down the ice.

Four shifts into the first period, and I’m convinced that Coach Mulligan has a personal problem with me. There’s no other explanation for why I’m constantly on the ice with either King’s line, or the pack of goons he calls a fourth line. And all of them are trying their best to check me through the boards into the front row.

“You good, Black?” Coach McQueen says into my ear as I try to catch my breath.

I turn to look at him, trying to get a read for what he’s really asking. His brow is low, and there’s genuine concern in his eyes, which is unexpected. McQueen isn’t one to show what he’s thinking on his face.

“Yeah, just getting sick of the dodge-and-weave game,” I say, turning back to watch the game.

Play is stopped as the Wardens go offside, and everyone moves off to the edges of the ice as we go to a commercial break and the ice scraping team comes out.

“Getting tired, Spencey? Having a hard time with these top line minutes?” Greggs, one of my former teammates, snarks as he skates past our bench on his way to his own.

“Dude, who even are you? You’re, like, forty and still playing on the third line,” Eli calls, standing up and leaning over the half wall.

“Says the minor leaguer,” another Warden I don’t recognize shouts back.

“Does this look like the minors to you? No wonder y’all haven’t even gotten a shot on goal in twelve minutes,” Eli fires right back, not missing a beat.

There’s a bit of blustering, but Eli shouts over them, repeating “no talent” over and over until Oliver grabs him by the back of his jersey and forces him back to his seat.

“God, they make it too easy,” he says, grabbing his water bottle before squirting a long stream into his open mouth.

“You’re going to get decked if you keep talking like that,” Oliver warns.

“Let them be the ones to start it.”

McQueen’s low rumble makes me jump slightly, and I whip around to look at him skeptically. He’s not looking at us, though, not as play resumes.

“I can’t promise that, not if King keeps running his fucking mouth,” Eli mutters, low enough that Coach can’t hear it.

I grunt my agreement, shifting down as lines change. A few seconds later, my line is back on the ice, and everything else falls away. The only things that matter are the puck, my stick, and the game. It’s not long before the Wardens change, and King is back out on the ice, charging up the ice in formation with his team, a play I recognize. A quick shift of my position, a poke with my stick, and the puck is mine as I haul ass toward the goal. We’ve gotten behind the forwards and a defenseman, so it’s a three-on-one rush. They don’t stand a chance.

Two quick passes, and Oliver takes the shot, a clean one right between the goalie’s pads. The crowd boos, but I don’t care. Oli punches the air, and Eli and I skate toward him to join the celebration. There’s not the usual fanfare like we have at home, no song blaring through the speakers, with fans singing along. Instead, we just make our way back to the bench to trade out for the next faceoff.

“Lucky shot,” King mutters as we cross near center ice.

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