Page 28 of Born of Ice

My skin breaks out in wild goosebumps from his whisper and the untold promise in his words and I don’t know what I was expecting him to do now, but when he sets me back down, I yelp.

“Psychopath,” I mutter.

“Takes one to know one, little star,” Exton says as he walks away from me, pulling out his cell phone and dialing someone.

I wheel myself away from him as fast as I can and only once I’m back in the safety of my room do I realize something.

My legs…they have goosebumps.

“Idiot. Lunatic. Fucking psychopath,” I spew each colorful name I can think of as the person who they are all intended for, secures the helmet under my chin, checking that all of the protective crap he put on me is in place too.

“Talk dirty to me, baby.” He smiles wickedly.

“Um, Axe? Are you sure this is a good idea?” Severin, Exton’s friend, asks, clearing his throat.

I still can’t understand how someone so smart and sane could be best friends with this asshole. Severin Minaev showed up just ten minutes ago as Exton was wheeling me out of the house and onto the very much frozen Iris Lake and has been trying to talk this lunatic out of whatever his plan was all that time.

Apparently, Sava was the one he called three hours ago and made him come out all this way from Boston just to bring his spare goalie helmet…for me…

“Of course it is.” Exton grins at me, pushing my bangs out of the way so I can see better though the mask and patting the top of the helmet he skates away from the makeshift goal post he put together using the crap that was left over from the previous owners in the detached garage.

Two mismatched height ladders for the sides with a long shovel in between them serving as the top and one of my pink bed sheets as the netting. Like I said, a fucking idiot.

“Electra here, brought up a very good point earlier today. I need to keep in shape, keep practicing but I also need to make her walk again. So, I combined the two,” he says with glee, and I wish I could stand up, get really close and kick him in his balls as hard as I could. “What better motivation to stand up if not a flying puck,” he says, and Severin pinches the bridge of his nose, looking heavenward.

“What’s a flying puck?” I ask, suddenly a lot more nervous than irritated.

The asshole decides to ignore my question as he gets into his position, playing with the small pile of pucks with his stick.

“It’s when we literally send the puck flying into the net instead of sliding it in. And it’s extremely fast,” Sava grits out that last part, glaring at his friend.

“How fast?” But I don’t really need an answer, my heart rate is already in the heart attack zone.

“Fast. Around hundred, hundred-twenty miles per hour.”

“OHMYGOD!” I yell. “Exton, don’t you da—” But I don’t get to finish my sentence before a small black bullet is flying my way and I barely have a second to duck my head out the way.

“I’m going to kill you!” I screech, trying hard as hell to wheel myself out of here, but it’s still as fruitless as when I tried to do so when he just brought me out here. My wheels won’t fucking move on this ice. “You are going to kill me!” I yell some more but you know what that asshole is doing?

He’s jumping into the air, skates and all. “Woohoo, it’s a GOALLLLL,” he cheers for himself and laughs as if this is the funniest thing he's ever done.

“LUNATIC!” I shout again and then yelp as he sends another one, this one hitting me in the shoulder pad.

“Axe, come on, that’s enough.” Sava starts walking toward him, but Exton stops him.

“If she wants it to stop, she can get up and leave.”

“You know I can’t fucking do that!”

But in response there is another puck, this one somehow missing my body.

“Man, you’re going to seriously hurt her.”

“Relax, I’m not using even half my power here.” And before Severin can snatch the stick out of his hands, he sends another puck my way. Even before it hits me, I can tell he didn’t hold back this time and that little black dot is piercing through time and space, aimed at me.

No, not me, my useless legs. A searing fear hits me right in the chest. My legs…will it hurt? Will it actually hurt? What if I could feel something and he hurts me.

But the flying puck doesn’t care about my rambling thoughts or hopes it's about to shatter. It’s on a mission—without knowing that these milliseconds are life or death to me—and it meets the target.

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