Page 126 of The Risk

I tense up, because any time Coach encourages Brooks to draw a penalty, there’s real potential for tempers to fly. Our line returns to the game, and Brooks is immediately out for blood. In the faceoff,he starts taunting Davenport, who’s crouched to the right of Nate Rhodes. Mike Hollis is at Rhodes’s left.

I’m too focused on the puck to register what Brooks says, but whatever it is, it summons a feral growl from Davenport. “Go fuck yourself,” the sophomore spits out.

“Enough,” the ref shouts.

Once again I win the faceoff. I snap the puck to Brooks, who muscles his way into Briar’s zone. He snaps it back to me, but I don’t have a shot. The D-men are protecting Corsen and the net like the fucking Kingsguard inGame of Thrones. I need an opening. I need—

The whistle blows. I didn’t see what happened, but I turn to find Hollis shouting something at Weston.

It’s a high-sticking call, and Hollis is hauled into the penalty box. Brooks and I exchange a look. He did his job. Now it’s time to do mine.

Our line stays out for the penalty kill, but we don’t need much time. Briar is a man down, and although they manage to ice it right off the faceoff, the moment we get the puck back? Stick a fork in them cuz they’re done. I deke out Davenport and release a shot that even Corsen and his new glove skills can’t stop. The lamp lights and relief ripples through me.

The score is tied.

“Good job,” Coach says when I swing over the wall.

I pop out my mouth guard, a piece of equipment that isn’t mandatory, but I value my teeth, thank you very much. My breathing is labored, chest sucking in and out, as I watch my teammates speed by. That was exhausting. My shift lasted more than three minutes, which is unheard of.

“Get your shit together,” I hear Heath growling to Jonah.

I glance down the bench, frowning deeply. “We got a problem?” I call to the younger guys.

“Nah, it’s all good,” Heath says.

I’m not convinced. Jonah’s angry gaze is glued to the action infront of us, but I can’t quite pinpoint where his anger stems from. Maybe he took a dirty hit and is pissed at the player who got away with it.

Dmitry’s line manages to hold Briar off. When McCarthy flops down beside me, I pound his shoulder with my glove. “Good hustle,” I bark.

“Thanks.” He blushes at the compliment, and I know he’s trying hard not to grin. I don’t throw out praise haphazardly, so my teammates know that when I praise them, I really mean it.

His obvious happiness brings a rush of guilt to my throat. Brooks got in my head the other night about “doing the right thing” with McCarthy. I’d already made the decision to tell him that I’m seeing Brenna, but I’m waiting until after the game. I didn’t want to take the chance that the news might distract him from the finals.

Coach changes up the lines again. Now it’s me and Brooks, and Coby’s been swapped out for Jonah, a right-winger who’s excellent at taking advantage of rebounds. There’s almost an immediate offsides call. At the whistle, I skate over and get in position.

The faceoff is a disaster from the wordgo. The bullshit starts, but this time it’s not courtesy of Weston. It’s from Jonah.

“Davenport,” he barks.

The Briar player spares him a glance before focusing on the ref.

“I’m talking to you, asshole. Stop pretending you can’t hear me.”

“Not pretending anything,” Davenport snaps back. “I just don’t give a shit about what you’re saying.”

The puck drops. I secure it, but Jonah is still distracted from the exchange and he misses the pass I flick his way. Davenport intercepts and takes off on a breakaway. We chase after him, but it’s Johansson who saves us from that potentially costly mistake. He stops the shot and passes the puck off to Brooks.

“Unacceptable,” I hiss at Jonah as I skate by. That kind of screw-up isn’t typical of Jonah Hemley. “Keep your head in the game.”

I don’t think he hears me. Or maybe he doesn’t care. When he and Davenport are tangled up against the boards during our next shift, Jonah starts up again. “Thursday night,” he’s growling. “Where were you?”

“Fuck. Off.” Davenport elbows Jonah hard and wins the battle for the puck.

I hit Davenport with a crosscheck and steal the puck, but once again Jonah is too caught up in whatever the hell this is. He doesn’t drive forward like he’s supposed to, and we’re offsides again. The whistle blows.

I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t fucking like it.

The next faceoff is to the left of our net. As we line up, Jonah’s interrogation resumes. “Thursday night, asshole,” he spits out. “You were at the Brew Factory.”

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