Page 12 of Off-Limits as Puck

The mention of our mother makes something cold settle in my stomach. “Don’t you dare drag her into this.”

“I’m not dragging anyone into anything, but if I don’t pay them—”

“Then you should have thought about that before you bet money you didn’t have.” I close my eyes, trying to push down the fury that’s building in my chest. “I can’t keep doing this, Matty. I won’t.”

“So you’re just going to let them kill me?”

The question hangs in the air, and I know he’s playing dirty by putting it like that. But I also know that if I keep paying his debts, he’ll never stop gambling. And eventually, there won’t be enough money in the world to cover what he owes.

“I’m going to let you figure out how to be an adult,” I say finally. “Find another guy, Matty. Because I’m done.”

I hang up before he can respond and immediately turn my phone off. The team is staring at me when I get back to the table, but I don’t offer any explanations.

Three hours later, I’m in the locker room suiting up for the game, and my head is anywhere but on hockey. The phone number on my arm has faded even more, and every time I look at it, I get angry all over again. I’m pissed that my dream girl left without a word. Livid at Matty for being a selfish addict. But mostly mad at myself for caring about either of them.

“You good, Hendrix?” Coach Williams asks as I’m lacing up my skates.

“Yeah, Coach. Ready to go.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Keep yourhead in the game tonight. Vegas is always looking to start trouble, and I need you focused.”

Focused. Right. I can barely remember what focused feels like.

The game starts rough and gets worse. By the second period, I’ve already taken two penalties for unnecessary roughness, and Coach is giving me looks that could melt ice. But I can’t seem to dial it back. Every hit feels personal, every check an opportunity to work out the frustration that’s been building since I woke up alone.

Then Vegas player Ryan McKinnon decides to open his mouth.

“Hey Hendrix,” he says during a face-off, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. “Heard your brother is a heroin addict. What were the headlines?”

“Shut your mouth, McKinnon.”

“Must be rough, having to babysit a gambling addict while trying to keep your own act together.” He grins, and I can see the malice in his eyes. “How long before you can’t afford to cover his debts anymore? Or before you turn into a drug addict just like him?”

Something snaps inside me. The puck drops, but instead of going for it, I go for McKinnon. My gloves hit the ice first, then his, and suddenly we’re throwing punches in center ice.

But this time, I don’t stop when he goes down.

This time, I keep swinging until three different players are trying to pull me off him, until the refs are blowing their whistles so hard I think they might pass out, until the crowd is on its feet screaming and I can taste blood in my mouth.

When they finally separate us, McKinnon is on the ice holding his face, and there’s blood on my knuckles that isn’t mine.

“Hendrix!” The ref’s voice cuts through the noise. “Gamemisconduct! You’re done!”

I don’t argue. I skate off the ice to a chorus of boos from the Vegas crowd and the stone-faced disappointment of my coaching staff. In the tunnel, I can hear the announcer explaining that I’ve been ejected from the game, that this is my third major penalty this season, that the league will likely be reviewing the incident.

In the locker room, I sit in my stall with my head in my hands, the adrenaline finally starting to fade. My phone, which I’d turned back on before the game, shows seventeen missed calls from Matty and a text from my agent that just saysCall me. Now.

I know what this means. I know that what happened out there was the final straw, that the team has been looking for a reason to cut ties with me for months. I know that my reputation as an enforcer has finally crossed the line into liability.

And I know that somewhere in this city, my dream girl is going about her life, completely unaware that the man she spent the night with just destroyed his career in a fit of rage over a gambling debt and a smudged phone number.

Last night, for the first time in years, I felt like someone other than number forty-seven. I felt like just Reed, talking to a beautiful woman who saw something in me worth spending time with.

And now, number forty-seven is going to be ripped away from me too.

They say I have anger issues, but that’s bullshit. I just have a low tolerance for people who can’t keep my family’s name out of their fucking mouths.

By the time we travel back home, and I reach my apartment, #HendrixAssault is trending, complete with slow-motion videoof me rearranging that guy’s face.

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