Page 21 of Brace and Chase

I’ve spent more time in my suite at the Winner resort these past months than I did all last year for fuck’s sake, and let’s not even get into how much time I’ve spent with my friends and their families—not enough.

I saw little Ava and baby Adam—Jules’s kids—up at Gab’s suite before the damn game started and I feel like Adam grew a few inches since I’d last seen him.

And the most fucked up thing of all is I see how my guys aren’t really as inviting to him as they would be normally. It makes me feel good sometimes, seeing him walking alone to the exit, or having dinner with the guys when we’re on the road and seeing he’s not there. Othertimes, it makes me feel like the biggest piece of shit to ever exist.

But then I only need to remember his words from all those years ago, his cruel smile, his sadistic chuckle.

Why did he bring them? It’s pathetic and fucking embarrassing.

The instant the memory flashes through my mind I’m fueled with all the hate I have in me again.

I come back to the present, where Milkman is staring intently at me. I’m about to ask him what he wants but he shoves a bottle of water at my chest. I look down and away after I take it then squeeze a mouthful through my guard.

It’s more than likely he offered me the bottle more than one time and realized how damn out of it I am. I don’t mind that he can tell when I’m not in the moment, but it does worry me.

Milkman is a great player, but he’s so fucking young. He’s only been with us for three seasons, and I don’t want his game to suffer in the slightest because he might be worried about me.

So after I throw the bottle back to the assistant holding a basket of them behind the bench, I turn to look into his dark eyes and smile gratefully at him.

Then we’re off to the ice once more.

The two minutes Laney warned us about go by in an instant while we do exactly what he asked of us—defend like our lives depend on it and don’t take the offensive unless the opportunity is presented to us on a silver platter.

It’s been fucking illuminating and groundbreaking, the way Laney has been playing with the shifts of the lines since he took over. He does it like no one before, and the proof that it works is in the three Stanley Cup rings I have at home. I’ve won the three of them with Laney as our leader, but only one while he was a player.

Since I trust that he wants another win just as badly, I follow his orders and bite down on my mouthguard to keep quiet when I go over the boards and see Heart take my place on the ice.

Carolina also brings out a new line, and I pay close attention to Pat Quinn—a brute of a defenseman—as he makes his way toward Eagle, who’s handling the puck and racing for the net.

Eagle looks back for a fraction of a second, then sends the puck to the other side of the ice, to Heart, who gains the attention of Quinn.

On the one hand, Eagle just gave everyone the impression that he doesn’t want to be in the crosshairs of Quinn—which I can’t really blame him for, but that’s a bad look. If Quinn remembers this for the rest of the game, then he won’t leave Eagle alone for the whole three periods.

On the other hand, I know Eagle is smart, I trust his instincts, and since I know how well he can take a hit, I trust that this is something he’s thought through.

Heart passes to Jules, who sends it over to Mater, Benny, back to Heart who’s right up by our bench, and then?—

“That’s a dirty fucking hit,” Bates hisses from next to me.

It absolutely was, but I keep my mouth shut, waiting for the refs to tell Quinn he’s going to the sin bin for five fucking minutes.

Nothing happens, though, it’s as if they’re fucking blind, but then it gets worse.

“Disloyal motherfucker,” I hear Quinn mutter at Heart, who I have to say, keeps his cool. Not like me.

Without deciding to do so, I’m standing, and I feel Bates do the same next to me. We keep watching how our guys play keep away from Carolina, and when he turns to face us while he keeps fucking battling Quinn, I see there’s blood on Heart’s cheek, right where the end of Quinn’s stick jabbed him.

It’s familiar, the ball of justified resentment and rage in my gut. I’ve felt it many times over the years whenever a teammate takes a dirty hit, especially when Jules does, and the refs do nothing.

I look to my right to see the rest of my line is standing with Bates and me, and the next second, when my eyes clash with Laney’s, I can tell he sees everything I’m thinking instantly. He nods almost imperceptibly, then calls the first line over for a quick change, and I’m over the boards the second Heart’s leg goes over it too.

I waste no time heading over to fucking Quinn.

I hear Laney shout at Heart to get his cheek looked at, but I’m already barreling toward the defenseman who hurthim. I feel my line come onto the ice as I watch Jules frowning over at the bench, and when I’m within reach of Quinn I don’t hesitate for a second. I slam the left side of my body against him and smile evilly at how he stumbles.

Yeah, it’s different when you mess with a man your own size.

And I know Charlie’s no weakling, but Quinn and I both have three inches and probably about thirty pounds of muscle on him.

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