Page 69 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Killian shoots him a glare. “Yeah? Maybe tonight’s the night.”

Coach’s voice cuts through the tension. “I need you all dialed the fuck in! No stupid penalties, no getting baited into bullshit, and for the love of God, don’t let those Lakehaven fuckers get under your skin.”

My jaw tightens at that.Good luck with that one, Coach.

Because then there’smyproblem—Taylor motherfucking Easton.

Lakehaven’s winger. Fast as hell, aggressive as fuck, always chirping, always in my space, always trying to push my buttons. I hate that fucker. He’s just as much of a dick as Kane, but in a different way.

Kane’s got that smarmy, holier-than-thou attitude that makes Killian’s blood boil, but Easton? He’s an instigator. He loves getting in my face, running his mouth, pushing every fucking button he can until I snap.

And I do. Every time.

I exhale through my nose, shaking out my shoulders. Not tonight.

“They’ve got nothing on us,” Thorn mutters beside me, rolling his neck. “They lost three of their top scorers to the draft.”

“Yeah, well, they picked up a couple of transfers,” Killian points out. “Fucking desperate, if you ask me.”

“Whatever, man,” Wesley Matthews chimes in. “We’re still the better team. We always have been.”

Coach claps his hands together, snapping us out of our chatter. His face is red, his voice sharp. “This isn’t just any game. This is Lakehaven. Our biggest fucking rivals. They hate us just as much as we hate them, and you better believe they’ve been waiting for this game all season. So don’t give them a fucking thing.”

His gaze flicks to Killian. “King, you know Kane’s gonna come after you. Get in his head. Make him sloppy.”

Killian smirks, the kind that promises violence. “Done.”

Coach’s eyes shift to me. “Bishop.” I straighten. “Easton’s got speed, but you hit harder. If he starts pulling his usual bullshit, shut him down.”

I nod. “Done.”

“Matthews, Grayson—” Coach continues down the line, giving each of us our assignments, reinforcing strategies we already know, but it’s more than that. It’s fuel.

Because this game isn’t just about points or standings. It’s war and Lakehaven is the enemy.

Killian stands first, tapping his stick against the floor. “We’re gonna fucking murder them.”

Coach points at him. “Within the rules, King. Don’t be an idiot.”

Killian grins like the asshole he is. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Coach.”

Thorn laughs as he stands, cracking his neck. “Ready, Bishop?”

“Born ready,” I mutter, yanking my helmet over my head and snapping the chin strap into place.

The locker room door swings open, and the sound of the arena floods in—the roar of the crowd, the music pumping through the speakers, the energy so thick it’s suffocating.

Time to fucking go to war.

The second my skates hit the ice, the energy of the arena slams into me like a fucking bus. The place is packed—standing room only, and it sure as hell isn’t because everyone’s here for some clean, technical hockey. No, they came for the bloodbath.

Blackthorne vs. Lakehaven. The rivalry. The grudge match. The game where fists fly and penalties rack up before the puck even drops.

I skate a lazy circle near center ice, taking in the crowd. The student sections on either side of the rink are going insane, the banners waving, the chants already starting up.

Lakehaven’s side is packed with assholes decked out in green and black, screaming insults and flipping us off. Blackthorne’s side? Just as wild, just as loud, and already hyping us the fuck up.

I roll my shoulders, gripping my stick tighter. I can feel it in the air—tonight’s going to be brutal. I skate up next to Killian, who’s watching the Lakehaven bench like he’s about to commit a felony. “You’re vibrating, man,” I mutter.

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