Page 125 of The Risk

“Because you said good luck. I assumed someone was holding a gun to your head.”

“Oh, don’t be a brat.”

“So you were seriously wishing me good luck?”

“Yup.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Nope.”

“Who’s the brat now?” I hesitate. “Look…whatever happens tonight, I don’t want to stop seeing you.” Then I hold my breath and wait, because I genuinely don’t know what she’ll say.

I know what I want her to say. I want her to say that she hasn’t been able to get me off her mind since we slept together, because I haven’t gotten her offmymind since we slept together. The sex was unreal. So goddamn amazing. And that was our first time. If it’s that good when we don’t even know each other’s turn-ons yet? When we don’t know exactly how to get each other off? Means it’s only going to get better. That blows my mind.

“I want to keep seeing you,” I press when she still hasn’t answered. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”

There’s another delay. Then she sighs. “Yes. I do. Now get out there so we can kick your ass.”

A smile cracks my face in half. “You wish, babe.”

I shut the locker and turn around, flinching when I spot Coach in the doorway.

Shit.

“Babe, eh?” Coach mocks. “You call your father ‘babe’?”

I release a weary breath. “I’m sorry I lied.”

“Connelly.” He grabs my shoulder when I reach him. Even with my padding on, I can feel the steel in his grip. “That girl… whether or not you’re serious about her…you have to remember, she’s Jensen’s daughter. You need to consider the possibility that she’s playing mind games with you.”

Hazel said the same thing. But I think they’re both being paranoid. Brenna doesn’t play games. “I’ll take that into consideration.” I force a smile. “Don’t worry, it won’t affect my performance on the ice. We got this.”

We don’t got this.

From the second the puck drops, the game is a complete clusterfuck. It’s speed and aggression. It’s two teams that aren’t competing for a win, but competing to fucking kill each other. The hits are brutal, and I suspect the refs are letting a lot of calls go because of the high intensity of the game. It’s hockey the way it’s meant to be played. With absolute abandon.

The fans are losing their minds. I’ve never heard the arena thisalive. Screams, cheers, and boos crash together in a symphony that fuels the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Despite all that, Briar is outplaying us. They’re fast, particularly Davenport. And Nate Rhodes? I don’t know what he’s been putting in his Wheaties, but holy shit. He gets the first goal of the game, a bullet that Johanssonhas absolutely no chance of stopping. Even I’m impressed by it, but one look at the fury reddening Coach’s eyes and I know I can’t let that slide.

“You gonna let them do that to you?” Coach roars at us. “You gonna let them do that to youin our house?”

“No sir!”

The adrenaline kick sends me diving over the wall with Brooks and Coby. It’s our power line, and there’s a reason we call it that. Brooks is the Incredible Hulk when he’s on the ice. He delivers body checks that are bone jarring. Coby has a mean elbow and can battle against the boards better than anybody. I win the faceoff, but rather than pass, I deke out Fitzgerald and skate forward. I wait for the others to cross the blue line before sending a pass back to Coby, close to center.

He skates around the net, stops for a second, then flies out. He shoots and misses. Davenport almost gets his stick on the rebound, but I give him a shove and it’s my stick that connects with the puck. I shoot and miss. The puck bounces toward Brooks, who shoots and misses. A deafening roar goes through the stands.

Jesus fucking Christ. Three fucking shots, denied, denied, denied, and since when did Corsen get this fucking good? I’m growling in frustration when Coach calls to change it up, and off the ice we go.

Breathing hard, I sit on the bench next to Brooks. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “Corsen’s not usually that fast with the glove.”

“Just gotta keep hammering him, tire him out.”

Brooks gives a grim nod.

Coach appears behind us, clamping a hand around Weston’s shoulder. “Get us a power play,” he orders.

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