Page 19 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Perfect. They're all exactly where I need them to be. Pieces moving into place to win this game.

Jack, Noah, and Caleb file out of O'Malley's, leaving a wake of whispers. Nobody wants to be around when the Black brothers have a talk.

"Spill it." I lean forward, jaw tight, eyes staring straight into my brother’s. "What vital fucking information did you keep from me while sending me to the Reapers?"

Jackson's hands grip his wheelchair's arms, knuckles white. The injuries aged him, turned my indestructible older brother into something harder, colder. "This goes deeper than the Reapers. Though they're a big fucking piece."

I shrug, having already thought about it. "Dad."

"Yeah." He runs a hand over his face, looking every bit the broken man they tried to make him. "Didn't tell you because it wasn't relevant then."

"And now?"

"Now you need to understand why they came after me." His voice drops. "Dad didn't just expose Kemper's operation— he fucked with it. Made it personal. They always go for family first."

"So you were what, a warning shot?"

"An obstacle." His laugh is as bitter as the dregs in my glass. "But you— you're Dad's golden boy with the hockey career and the perfect future."

"What the fuck are you saying? I have a target on my back?"

"You've got an in with Noah, and his family's reputation makes the Reapers untouchable. Get Rick Kemper into their playground, and you're protected. They'll handle the rest."

"That simple?"

"If you're already fucking his daughter?" He leans forward, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Yeah, that fucking simple. Just don't get sloppy."

And on that note, ladies and gentlemen, my demons get to come out and fucking play.

O'Malley's stale beer smell clings to my jacket as I head to the locker room. My brother's words about revenge echo in my head, but I've got bigger plans. Lola's just the start—a beautiful distraction while I position myself exactly where I want to be on the ice.

The locker room buzzes with pre-practice energy. Dylan's at his usual spot, giving me that silent nod as I walk in. Jack's trying to burn holes through me with his glare—let him try. Noah keeps his head down, methodically taping his stick. Zane and Caleb huddle around a phone, probably watching last night's NHL highlights and laughing.

"How long have you been with Gigi?" Thatcher asks Dylan while pulling on his practice jersey.

Dylan just shrugs, focused on his skate laces.

"Damn, bro. How the fuck did you get her?"

Caleb looks up from his phone. "Cause he's the fucking man. Look at him."

"He does get all the chicks," Thatcher laughs.

"You need to come to the parties, Dylan. Your girl was there without you." Thatcher's pushing it, but Dylan just keeps lacing up his skates, jaw tight.

I strap on my pads, already planning my move. A year behind the net was enough.

Zane catches my eye. "How's purple hair?"

"Like tuna," Jack spits.

The guys cringe, shaking their heads. I chuckle, letting him dig his own grave.

Coach Jacobs is in rare form today, voice echoing off the rafters as we hit the ice. His whistle shrills every thirty seconds like he's trying to burst eardrums.

"Black, stay at your post!" he barks when I drift toward center ice.

I glide over to him, ice spraying. "Put Thatcher there. I want defense."

---