Page 147 of Break The Ice

Wesley roars and manages to catch my ankle, dragging me back towards him. I throw myself onto my back and kick out with my other foot, hitting him smack in the face.

“You bitch!” he hisses and raises the blade. I can see the end of my life and the start of it. All the seconds that have passed, the pain and loneliness, the joy and love. I see it all as that blade descends.

It’s over.

I’m sorry.

I would have loved a life with you.

But then a hockey stick cuts between us with bone breaking force. I hear the sound as it collides with Wes’ knife. The blade goes flying, and I’m showered with ice as Inman, the team’s fastest player, gets out of the way.

I look up to see Wren with his hockey stick raised like a baseball bat. He brings it around and down. He’s still coming towards us at breakneck speed.

I roll towards the goal net, getting safely inside it.

CRACK.

Wesley cries out, but then he’s hit again and again. Sellars and Bruce fish me out of the goal net and escort me away from the mass of maddened hockey players.

I see Kit and Callan almost vibrating on the other side of the boards, and as soon as I get close, I’m pulled into their arms.

“Go get Raider,” Callan says to Bruce.

I think maybe I should be crying or sad or something, but I just feel numb. I think it’s delayed. It will probably knock me on my ass later. I blink a lot, but my eyes keep filling with tears, and I just keep wiping them away.

Kit holds me tight, glaring at anyone who comes close.

A man who looks like Raider walks up and stops with his hands in his pockets.

“Bailey?” I ask nervously.

He smiles, this lopsided, naughty boy smile that makes me a little bit nervous.

“Allow me to take out the trash. My welcome-to-the-family gift to you.”

I blink, but he simply gestures to an older guy who strokes his beard and looks back at the ice.

“Can I have one of those sticks? I totally underestimated how much damage you could do with one.”

“Sure,” Bruce says and throws one to the old biker. “This is one of Raider’s sticks.”

“Sweet.” The older biker purrs and takes a practice swing.

“Dad, knock it off,” Bailey hisses.

I look between them wide-eyed. Dad?

“This is Anderson, who goes by Andy or Brutus.”

He does not look like a Brutus at all. He looks like the kind of guy who likes to laugh, who would be there with a hand on your shoulder if you needed to to talk. He reminds me of my dad.

Bailey whistles. “Bring him here, boys.”

The hockey players circle, their sticks high. They move towards us, and then Wesley is dumped at my feet.

I stare down at the man who is responsible for my parents’ deaths, for my terror for years, and I feel nothing. Not anger, no sadness, not hate. I simply don’t care about him anymore.

I have what I need.

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