Page 8 of On Thin Ice

Viggy snorted. “Dunno, but the fans are gonna love him.”

I huffed. “Of course they will.”

The kid was talented; there was no denying that. And while I’d never admit it out loud, I could see exactly why the Aces wanted him.

But talent wasn’t everything.

This wasn’t juniors or college. This was the pros. It was fast. It was brutal. And if Stryker Bell wanted to fuck around, someone was going to make damn sure he found out.

The sharp blast of Coach’s whistle signaled the end of drills. “All right, boys! Let’s finish with another scrimmage.” He skated toward center ice, Assistant Coach Russo following behind to act as referee. “Game conditions. Gold jerseys against blue. Hard shifts. Make ‘em count.”

Based on the distribution of players, my team was clearly meant to test the newbies, a mix of solid rookies and guys up from the AHL hoping to prove themselves.

I rolled my shoulders as, across the ice, Stryker was grinning, all confidence and swagger as he knocked fists with Miller.

Viggy won the face-off, and I drove hard into the zone, tracking the play as he dished the puck back to our defense. A few quick passes, and we transitioned up the ice.

Stryker cut through the neutral zone, calling for the puck, his stick tapping insistently against the ice.

Demanding little fuck.

Miller sent the pass tape-to-tape, and just like that, Stryker was flying into the offensive zone with that same damn flair he’d been flashing all damn week.

I stayed with him, though, adjusting my stride to match his pace.

He was fast. He was skilled.

But so was I.

When Stryker had the puck on his stick again, I somehow instinctively knew what was coming before he made his first move. Maybe it was experience, or maybe it was the hours I’d spent watching his film. Either way, I was ready for him.

He could have chipped it deep and driven to the net. Could have passed to Miller again, who was wide open at the top of the circle. But, no. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he pulled another slick move, dragging the puck behind his back to avoid Roonie, then cut hard toward the crease.

Showboating.

Again.

Before he could get his shot off, though, I closed the gap, putting all my weight behind the hit. I felt a satisfying jolt as my shoulder sent him into the boards. Not enough to injure him; just enough to make a fucking point. The glass shook, and his stick hit the ice. Whistles rang out, and a couple of guys hooted in approval. Someone let out a lowoooof.

I barely heard any of it over the steady hammer of my pulse. Maybe I should have skated off, but I waited half a second longer, watching the kid pick himself back up. Watching to see if he’d flash that fucking smirk at me again.

Stryker gave his shoulders a lazy roll, testing for damage like a guy who’d been hit plenty of times before and didn’t seem all that bothered. Then, as he bent to retrieve his stick, he shot me a slow grin.

“Damn, Harrison,” he drawled. “If you wanted to get cozy, all you had to do was ask.”

He wanted a reaction. Wanted me to engage.

Well, that wasnothappening.

I turned and skated away, pretending I didn’t notice the heat crawling up the back of my neck.

* * *

The checkI’d thrown on Stryker lingered in my muscles as I toweled off my hair, exhaustion settling into my limbs. Across the room, he was chatting with Miller and Viggy, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world.

I flexed my fingers and rolled the stiffness from my shoulders, trying to ignore the way irritation prickled beneath my skin.

“Harrison.” Coach Mack’s unmistakable voice cut through the din. “My office.”

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