Page 86 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Every hit is a reminder: this is what being a Reaper means. Pain is just the beginning.

"Welcome to hell," Noah whispers as the others back off. They fade into the shadows like they were never there, leaving me spitting blood onto concrete.

"Stand the fuck up," Noah barks. "Let's go."

I push myself up, ribs screaming. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. Noah claps my shoulder, hard enough to make me wince.

"Welcome to the brotherhood." His voice carries both a warning and a promise. "Glad to have you."

I straighten despite the pain, tasting blood and victory.

They think this is hell?

I'm already home.

Everything hurts when I hit the ice for morning practice. Good. Pain means I earned it.

Jack's not here. His spot on the bench is empty, and nobody's asking why.

I take the first drill at full speed, letting my body work through the stiffness. Coach keeps yelling about positioning, but I'm already three steps ahead. The puck feels right today. When I shoot, it's all power—no fancy shit needed.

During scrimmage, I steal the puck from Thatcher like taking candy from a fucking baby. He turns, but I'm already gone, weaving through defense like they're standing still. The goal comes easy. Too easy.

"Fucking hell, Black," Thatcher mutters, skating past. "Let’s run it again."

I don't respond. Just line up for the next play. By the end of scrimmage, I've scored six times and laid out two defensemen. Coach isn't sure whether to be pissed or impressed.

Caleb catches up to me as I'm heading off the ice. He eyes the bruise on my jaw, the split lip.

"Rough night?" he asks, voice low.

"You could say that."

Thatcher skates up on my other side. "Heard about it." He taps his shoulder where the Reaper tattoo sits under his jersey. "Congrats."

I crack my neck, feeling the ache of last night's beating.

Watching the rest of the team scatter out of my way as I head to the locker room? That feels pretty fucking good.

Caleb claps my shoulder. "Party after the game on Friday."

I give him a glance, questioning what kind of party.

"It’ll be fun. Leave the mask at home."

I start taking off my gear and I grin. The mask will be everywhere I go.

Chapter 36

The unknown number flashes on my screen, casting blue light across my cramped dorm room. Sheet music litters the floor, yesterday's practice session abandoned mid-phrase. My cello leans against the wall, still wearing the marks from where I gripped it too hard during that last piece.

I let it ring twice, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight streaming through my window. On the third ring, I answer.

"Lola." My mother's voice scrapes through the speaker like a bow across unrosined strings.

The familiar scent of rosin and wood fills my lungs as I grip the edge of my scratched desk. "Hey, mom. How are you?"

"Could be better. Listen, did you get a phone call?" Her words have that familiar floating quality, disconnected. She's definitely using again.

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