Page 70 of Pretty When He Bleeds

He smirks, but it’s sharp and mean. “Kane’s gonna eat the fucking ice tonight.”

My eyes flick toward the Lakehaven bench, and sure enough, Zach Kane is staring right back at us, his helmet already off, smirking like he knows something we don’t. Killian and Kane have always hated each other, but this year, it feels personal.

On the other side of the ice, Easton skates along the boards, jawing off to one of the refs, probably bitching about something that hasn’t even happened yet. I already know he’ll be a pain in my ass tonight.

Coach is barking something from the bench, but I’m not listening. I don’t need to. We all know what we have to do.

Win. And destroy Lakehaven while we’re at it.

Lakehaven plays like they’ve got something to prove, hitting hard, pushing every boundary, and making it clear they’re here to fuck us up just as much as they’re here to win.

Fine. Let’s fucking go.

I take the first shift with Killian and Thorn, and the second I step onto the ice, I lock eyes with Easton. He’s grinning like the cocky bastard he is, his brown hair damp with sweat, green eyes burning with the kind of challenge I’ve come to expect from him.

“Missed me, Bishop?” he calls out as we skate into position.

“Not even a little,” I deadpan.

“Bullshit.” He taps his stick against the ice, eyes gleaming. “Let’s have some fun.”

The ref blows the whistle, and the game fucking starts.

The first few minutes are brutal. Every pass, every play, every movement is a fight. The crowd is insane, chanting, screaming, hyped as hell to watch us and Lakehaven rip each other apart. The atmosphere is electric, thick with tension as if the whole arena is waiting for us to snap.

And we will. We always do.

The first real hit comes when Kane slams Killian into the boards so fucking hard the glass rattles. Killian bounces off like a goddamn psycho and shoves him back, but the play’s already moved on. The refs are watching, waiting for an excuse to pull someone.

Thorn rips the puck from one of their defensemen, skating up ice like a bat out of hell before sending it my way. I take off, cutting through their zone, my eyes locked on the goalie.

And then bam—

A body crashes into mine, knocking me sideways with enough force to send my helmet damn near into my eyes. I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Fucking Easton.

I shove off him, keeping my balance as I regain control of the puck, but he’s right on my ass, pushing, jabbing, talking.

“You’re off your game, Bishop,” he taunts. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

I ignore him, cutting left to shake him, but he stays glued to me.

“What’s wrong?” he presses. “Got something on your mind?” His voice drops into something mocking. “Or someone?”

My grip tightens on my stick.

Fucker.

I don’t take the bait. Instead, I dig in, pushing forward and keeping my focus on the net. Easton tries to cut me off, but I feel the play before it happens, shifting my weight at the last second and twisting around him.

He doesn’t have time to react before I snap the puck straight to Killian, who rifles it into the back of the net.

Goal.

The crowd erupts, Blackthorne fans losing their fucking minds as Killian throws his arms up in victory. I smirk, skating past Easton. “What were you saying?”

He glares, his jaw tight. “This isn’t over.”

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