Page 12 of Ricochet

As much as I want to look at him, I won’t let myself.

But once he’s got his own base layer on, the game’s back on too.

“So, are we actually going to be practicing together today?” I ask as I pull my pads on. “Would probably be a good idea since you’re, you know, one of my wingers and all.”

I can see his jaw working as he grits his teeth. “I told you not to call me that.”

“What’s the matter, Hayes?” Leaning to the side, I get a whiff of his aftershave. It’s sweet and spicy, like cherry and cinnamon.Fuck, he smells good.“You don’t want to be mine?”

When he faces me, there’s something in the depths of his eyes, the flaring of his nostrils, and the set of his jaw that goes beyond whatever hatred he feels toward me.

I hit a nerve much deeper than I meant to go.

The next time he speaks, it’s with a cold conviction I’ve never heard from him before. “I don’t fucking belong to anyone.”

That’s my cue to back the fuck off.

Straightening, I give him a nod. “Fair enough.”

Now I know where another line is.

However, those few simple words, the intensity in which he spoke them, the hard, unwavering look in his eyes that was masking something else entirely sticks with me. It all tugged at the half of me I’ve done a damn good job of keeping locked away when it comes to him.

Beneath my exterior, there are two parts.

A protector and a beast.

Callum seems to enjoy poking the latter, but now there’s something about him that’s calling to that other half just as it tried to do years ago.

As we continue getting ready, I leave him be and give him some space. I take a seat on the bench to pull on my skates, and when he sits beside me to do the same, it’s like the temperature drops twenty degrees.

He finishes lacing up before me and stands, facing me. “I promised Nate I’d keep my shit with you off the ice, and that’swhat I intend to do. If you want to have any chance of playing even halfway decent together, then stay the fuck away from me when we’re not in the rink. Got it?”

I stand too and take a step toward him, lowering my voice so no one overhears. “Then how about youactuallyget over your shit, Callum? I can play nice if you can. If not, it’s going to be a long fucking year.”

Before he can respond, I move around him and yank my sweater off the hanger. I throw it on and grab my stick before heading out of the locker room.

I’m fuming by the time I make it out onto the ice.

Next time one of my stupid professors wants to keep the class late, I’m walking the fuck out. I needed my time in the rink before practice a hell of a lot more than I needed that confrontation with Callum.

Now, instead of those noises in my head being quiet, they’re fucking raging.

That’s what happens when I don’t get what I need. When I don’t get the chance to tame the beast inside me before I let him out on the ice—or anywhere else for that matter—he’s more vicious than ever.

Wanting to eat everything in his path.

Slaughter and devour.

I might’ve let shit go, but Callum just had to keep pushing.

And of course I’m going to push right the fuck back.

Because the alternative is dangerous forbothof us.

Practice went about as greatas I expected. Which is to say not great at all.

When we were running drills, Callum used any excuse he could find to not pass me the puck. Of course, it was in a way that wasn’t noticeable to anyone but me. He got away with it because when he actually did pass it to me, it was with perfect precision, slapping against my tape every time. It was enough to get the coach’s eyes to sparkle like he could already see the scoreboard lighting up in his favor.

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