Page 70 of Love You Always

Ren leans over the headrest on my seat and explains. “In case you need some sustenance.”

I’m about to get up and walk off the bus because my lack of sustenance is none of his damn business, but my stomach growls in protest. “Thanks,” I mutter, determined to be a moody son of a bitch in the face of my captors.

An hour later, we reach the practice rink, which hides behind a fenced parking lot in Oakland. Despite my sour mood, I can’t help feeling a small thrill when the gates open to let the bus through, and the ice rink rises up in front of us. My mood lifts at the sight of the complex, its holy gates open to me for the first time in my life.

Ren and I have become friendly since he and Beatrix started dating, but he’s on the road a ton and I’m always busy trying to bail Buttercup Hill out of trouble, so it’s not like we spend much time hanging out. It makes me all the more curious about this outing and what’s behind it. I’m sure my brothers have something to do with it, but I’m too tired to question them.

The door to the bus opens right outside the entrance to the Otters’ locker room and we file off the bus. I follow Ren inside with my head on a swivel, taking in a wall of framed action shots of players from over the years. Once we reach the locker room, I blink in silent reverence for the sacred space.

For the first time in weeks, my mood lifts and I feel something resembling a pathway forward. Maybe this is how my life could look as I move on without Ella—a bunch of guys playing sports, drinking beer, and eating bad chips. The way my life used to be. Maybe it’s enough.

Ren hands me an oversized bag of gear, which I assume I’msupposed to distribute to the team players for this impromptu session. “Just let me know who needs what,” I say, pawing through the jerseys and padding in the bag.

“This is for you.”

“O-kay…what do you want me to do with it?”

“I want you to put it on and get your ass on the ice.” Ren points over his shoulder with his thumb and pops the release on his locker, which is full of clean practice gear.

I look around. All the players seem to have plenty of their own gear and jerseys to wear, but I’m still not understanding because it sounds like he just told me to suit up and go practice with a pro hockey team, which is nuts.

“Sorry, what?”

“Bunch of sizes in here, and there’s a lefty stick over there.” He points at a rack of sticks and my eyes land on one that glows like a perfectly polished sword being given to the newest knight before battle. I get dressed in the padding and a white Otters practice jersey, noticing that half the guys out there are wearing black jerseys.

My eyes land on Jax, who holds up a pair of skates I recognize as my own. “I believe these will fit you.”

As I turn toward an empty locker and put away my street clothes, I’m still a little confused about why I’m being invited to practice with the Otters, but I can only conclude that I must be just that pathetic in the eyes of everyone around me. And since a hockey rink is one of the few places where I can forget about everything else in my life, I decide not to question it.

When I’m done putting on my pads and lacing up my skates, I’m surprised to find that both my brothers along with Colin are all dressed for the ice, even though none of them plays the sport.

“Okay, I feel better knowing I’m not the only rookie on the ice,” I tell Dash, stomping past him in my skates and deciding this might actually be fun.

Wrong.

Well, wrong if a person’s idea of fun is getting his ass handed to him. Over and over again.

Instead of my brothers and my nerdy billionaire friend being the rookies, they skate around getting easy passes and assists from the Otters players, who protect them from injury and make them look good on the ice in our scrimmage.

I, on the other hand, seem to be the designated punching bag.

Ren comes at me, skating faster than I’ve ever moved on the ice, dribbling the puck until he nutmegs me for an easy score. But not before another forward on his team shoves his shoulder into me and knocks me onto the ground. Without any referees around to call fouls, I have to take every punch thrown and high stick shoved my way.

By the end of the third period, I limp off the ice for a necessary water break. Heaving up a lung after skating like the wind, just to avoid extra pummeling, I look up at Ren. “What the fuck?” I pant.

He shrugs. “Sometimes we’re a little extra fired up.”

“Bullshit.”

Squirting water in his mouth, he skates back onto the ice, signaling to me. “Get your ass out here. Teams are switching up. You’re with me.”

At first, I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the Otters’ team captain won’t have it out for me if we’re on the same team, but I quickly learn I’m wrong.

A minute into play, I narrowly miss getting checked by a defender when someone gives me a shove from behind. I land on the ice, skidding to a stop by the sideboard. Ren skates over to give me a hand up, but I don’t take it, not when I can tell from his cheeky grin that he’s the one who hit me.

“No thanks, asshole.”

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell you that I might headbutt you just for sport.”

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