Page 44 of Pucking Obsessed

“No clue. He dipped out pretty quickly like the little weasel he is,” I answer before Tristan can. “We’ve gone through everyone the other two are connected to. Nothing.”

Ramsey frowns, his expression hardening. “It’s not a random prank, not with the necklace and her father’s ring. Unless someone paid off the funeral home, they had to have snagged those the night of the murders.”

“Fucking tell us something we don’t know,” I say under my breath.

“If the three of you clowns don’t get in the visiting locker room right now…” Coach Jacobs’ voice thunders down the hallway. The man looks like he’s about to pop a vein.

“You’ll put us in time out?” Callum fires back, grinning and Coach is waving his clipboard like he’s going to crash out right here in the arena. We say our thanks to Ramsey, because despite the bickering, we’re thankful for his help.

As we start toward the locker room, Tristan grumbles, “If he says one word to me, I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not. We rode together, and you also can’t keep storming off every time the ref blows the whistle at you,” Callum says, deadpan.

Tristan rolls his eyes, the action so exaggerated, it’s almost comical. “Watch me.”

HAYDEN

The puck drops, and the game starts with a burst of energy that vibrates through the whole arena. My skates cut sharp into the ice as I glide into position. I’m not in the mood for any of this, but getting some rage out might do me good. St. Charles comes out aggressive, their players weaving quickly, but I’m right there, stealing the puck from one of their forwards and passing it cleanly to Callum. He shoots down the ice like a fucking freight train, the puck moving like it’s attached to him.

I haul ass, already knowing what he’s thinking. Callum fires the puck back to me, and I fake a shot because their defense is on it tonight. Instead of shooting, I pass it off to Kozlov, who for some reason is able to read the three of us on the ice like none of our other teammates can. Tristan makes a show of looking bored as hell because St. Charles hasn’t gotten anywhere near our net since the game started. Kozlov sends the puck ricocheting off the boards, landing it back in Callum’s possession.

Ramsey rams him into the wall, stealing the puck and heading straight for his cousin. Tristan’s massive frame swallows up every angle, and when Ramsey tries to pushthrough our defense and takes his shot, Tristan bats the puck away with casual precision.

I know Ramsey’s pissed because now Callum is chasing after him to instigate a fight, and it won’t be like the fake one with me.

The jerkoff who bumped into us in the hallway must have decided to play despite his injury because he skates toward Kozlov and trips him on purpose. I look around to see if the ref is going to blow his whistle, but he’s busy eyefucking Coach Jacobs. I guess the refs are in on rigging the games too. Dirty fuckers, not that I really care, but it’s good to know who to stay the fuck away from.

Kozlov slams his stick into the boards, a clear signal that he’s about to lose it. I barely have time to register what’s happening before he barrels into the St. Charles player. It’s not a clean check. It’s deliberate, brutal. Kozlov’s gloves come off before the guy even hits the ice, and he starts wailing on him. Fists fly, helmets are knocked loose, and the St. Charles guy doesn’t even have time to defend himself. Blood spatters the ice, and the refs are blowing their whistles like their lives depend on it.

“Jesus Christ,” I say under my breath, skating closer but I already know what this is. Kozlov didn’t just snap. This was planned, he’s just been waiting for his moment. He’s been itching to get the hell out of Castlebrook and back up to The Falls. Callum said he knows some people who know the Kozlov family. Callum says he was sent away for some fucked up shit, but he never specified what the circumstances were. This fight at an away game is his one way ticket home because Coach Jacobs can’t smooth this one out. It won’t matter how much money his parents have or how good of a player he is.

The St. Charles coach is livid, his face beet red as he yells at the refs. The player Kozlov attacked has to be carried off the ice, blood dripping from his nose and staining the ice. Kozlov doesn’tlook back as the ref ejects him from the game, skating off like he couldn’t care less.

I’m waiting for the fuckery to be over, so I glance toward the stands. My eyes immediately find Madison still sitting with Winter. She looks serious, uncomfortable, even. At first, I think it’s because of Kozlov’s little bloodbath, but then my focus shifts, and that’s when I notice Kirsten. She’s sitting next to Madison, her arms crossed, her expression nothing but sour. Must run in the family, because we’re both annoyed all the damn time. She’s been unusually quiet since the attack. I assumed she was just mad at me for not picking her over Madison, but I hadn’t put much thought into it otherwise. I didn’t expect her to show up tonight, but I’m not surprised either. She and her little sidekick typically go to the away games for the parties afterward with whatever team we’re playing. She better not pull any bullshit with Madison, and to be honest, I don’t put anything past her. At least Bethany isn’t with her.They’re abrasive separately, and obnoxious together.

I skate closer to the glass, my eyes locking on Madison, like truly taking her in when she’s not blushing or telling me to stop staring at her. She scrunches her nose up in distaste at whatever Winter is whispering in her ear. She’s so fucking cute. I feel that possessive heat flare in my chest as she turns in her seat to reply to Winter. The eighty-eight embroidered on the back of her jersey in soft pink along with the nickname only I’m allowed to call her is enough to get me going. When we get home, that’s staying on and everything else is coming off.

I tap the glass with my stick, catching her attention. Her eyes meet mine, and I point with my finger, motioning for her to turn around for me. I want the full effect. She stands, showing off the back of the jersey, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I mouth the words, “You’re my good girl,” and watch as her cheeks flush a beautiful pink. She bites her bottom lip, clearly flustered, and it sends a rush of satisfaction through me. Everyone here knows that she’s my entire fucking world.

I hear the ref’s whistle and scowl as I have to skate away. The puck drops and Callum’s on my left, and Tristan surprisingly didn’t walk off the ice because the clean up crew took too long. I feel the puck connect with my stick, and I pass it cleanly to Callum, who threads it back between two defenders with surgical precision for someone who calls the puck the “thingy” when trying to run a play by Tristan. I suspect a lot of the shit he says is just rage bait, and it absolutely works every time. I’m almost to the goal when Callum gets the puck over to me, and I take the shot, but their goalie deflects it. The puck ricochets off the boards, spinning back to their side who are barreling toward Tristan.

“Move it up!” I shout, and Tristan slings the puck back into play. I catch it on the tip of my stick and surge down the ice, my breath coming in sharp bursts. I spot Callum ahead and send the puck to him. He jukes around a St. Charles player like it’s nothing, faking a shot before passing it back to me. The lane opens up, and I seize the moment, winding up and slamming the puck into the top corner of the net.

The crowd erupts on both sides of the arena and my teammates swarm me, but I’m trying to get out of their little hellish huddle because I want to see Madison’s face. I know she was watching me, I could feel her eyes on me the whole time. Just as my eyes lock on hers, the arena lights flicker. At first, it’s barely noticeable, a minor distraction as we skate back to the bench. When it happens again, only longer this time, I know something is happening, and it can’t be anything good.

“What the hell is going on?” Callum says, glancing around as we all come to a standstill on the ice. My gut churns, an uneasy feeling creeping over me.

The big screen above the rink flickers to life, and at first, it’s static, but then the sound cuts through. Porn? Someone hacked the system and is playing porn? The noises are loud and vulgar. Moaning. Wet, sloppy sounds. The kind that leaves no room for interpretation.

Suddenly there's a video on the screen. It’s grainy but clear enough to see. Kirsten is bent over the hood of a car, her face flushed, her mouth open in a loud cry of pleasure. Behind her, the blonde St. Charles player who shoulder-checked Callum earlier, is gripping her hips, thrusting into her like she’s some kind of toy. His hand twists in her hair, pulling her head back, and she’s moaning like she doesn’t care who hears.

I glance toward the stands, and Kirsten is frozen in her seat, her face pale, her hands clutching Madison’s arm. Madison is beside her, leaning in, whispering something, her hand covering Kirsten’s in a soothing gesture despite the vile things my sister has said to her.

The video cuts out, and then the photos start. One by one, they flash on the screen. Tristan. Winter. Callum. Bethany. Madison. Me. Each of our faces linger for a moment before the next appears. There’s a dramatic pause and then Kirsten’s photo comes up, but there's a red X slashed across her face.

Below it, bold white letters spell out the words: GUESS WHO’S NEXT? Seeing Madison’s face up there like that has my fists clenched at my sides, my entire body vibrating with the need to destroy whoever is behind this.

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