Page 7 of Ricochet

I give into the urge and respond with a smirk.

His jaw ticks.

There’s something else there too, beneath whatever animosity he feels for me. A hesitation, a kind of conflict that’s internal as much as it is external. Like I’m a ghost from his past come back to haunt him.

More like a demon.

Or a reaper.

The coach dismisses us, and everyone skates out onto the ice to warm up. Callum moves around the rink, and several of theother guys seem to gravitate toward him. It becomes clear that our roles have been reversed. Back in high school, the varsity team wasmine. Callum’s been playing with these guys for three years, while I’ll have to earn their trust on and off the ice.

I can’t help but watch him while we warm up. He’s still fast. Maybe faster than he used to be. His movements are sharp and deliberate, like on the ice is where he feels most at home, most comfortable in his skin.

The ice is part of his armor.

But ice can be easy to break.

Not that I have any plans on doing that. The best thing for both of us is if I stay far away.

As we start on drills, I force my attention off of Callum and instead focus on learning how these guys play. Callum plays the same position he did in high school—left winger. Except he’s on the first line like me now, so he’ll be going onto the ice with me during every game. Instead of playing on opposite sides during scrimmages, we’ll have to figure out how to work together.

I have a feeling that’ll involve baby steps.

Coach has me running drills with Simmons, the captain and first-line right winger, along with our defensemen. I look over just in time to catch another of Callum’s glares from where he’s working with Brooks on one-touch passes on the other side of the rink.

Okay, so it’ll take a lot more than baby steps.

But that’s alright. I’m always up for a challenge.

Of which getting the puck past Fitz, the team’s starting goalie, is certainly not.

It’s no wonder the Lynwood Monarchs have never been to a championship.

Callum seriously better be ready to put whatever shit he has with me aside so we can actually fucking do something. This ismy last year of hockey. I don’t plan on pursuing pro. I know I could. I’m sure as hell cocky enough to know I have what it takes.

However, I’mnotcocky enough to put myself in an even brighter spotlight.

Not when I work best in the shadows.

After an hour and a half of practice, my muscles are screaming at me. I might have spent most of the summer doing…otherthings than keeping up with any kind of physical training. I should’ve visited the gym more, but I was a bit preoccupied.

I’m not exactly looking forward to strength and conditioning training bright and early tomorrow morning. I guess that’ll be the true test of just how out of shape I am when I find out if the screaming gets louder.

“Well, Wakefield,” Simmons says as we all head back to the locker room. “I suppose you can stick around.”

I let out a short, derisive laugh. “Thanks.”

I’m sure Callum would love to argue with that.

At least part of the first forward line doesn’t hate me.

After hanging up my stick, I remove my sweater as I walk over to my station. Coach spent this morning showing me around and helping me get settled in, so I feel right at home as I neatly hang up the black sweater with the large number “13” facing out.

As I swipe a hand over my forehead to move the hair sticking to it with sweat, I catch sight of the man standing at the station next to mine.

It’s Callum.

Of courseit’s Callum.

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