Page 12 of Ice Cold, Red Hot
It was like I needed some kind of physical release. And since I can’t have what I really want—her—I took that release in a different form. And once I started, it felt so good to let go that I couldn’t stop. That cost me the rest of thegame. And might’ve cost Rodriguez a tooth, though I didn’t feel too bad about that after the dirty hit on Griff.
The lecture I’d gotten after the game was expected, though it still stung when Coach was pissed at me. I’d taken it in silence, and left the locker room as soon as I’d showered. Even though I lived to be here, in the rink, on the ice, I’d had enough for tonight.
I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the locker room. Directly into the path of the one person I needed to stay away from.
Celeste.
Her wide eyes mirrored the surprise I felt at finding her in the dim hallway, but her expression flared and then softened. She opened her mouth, but I was talking before she could say a word.
“You here to offer an official faculty reprimand or something?” I bit out. “Feel like practicing your lecture on aggressive behavior in athletes?”
“What? No?—”
“What the hell are you doing in here?” The anger in my voice made her flinch, but then her shoulders straightened and her chin lifted. “Just thought you’d come down and tell me I shouldn’t fight?”
“You think I give a shit about your fight?”
I felt the smirk settle on my lips as I watched her steel her spine, saw her find that spark I’d been drawn to this summer. “Maybe not, but you watched, didn’t you? Couldn’t look away. Did it turn you on? Watching me pound that guy into the ice?”
Celeste held my gaze for a long moment, and I couldn’t read whatever was going on in the caramel depths of hereyes. And then she turned and walked away and my chest tightened.
I pushed a hand through my wet hair. What the fuck was wrong with me? First Rodriguez and now Celeste?
I stalked to my truck and drove home, glad I didn’t see her walking back, happy not to bump into her in the hallway.
Griff was out with some guys from the team, which meant I had the apartment to myself. I stepped in, not bothering to turn on the lights. The scant illumination from the parking lot lights was enough—I didn’t want the place to feel bright and alive. The dark matched my mood. I pulled a beer from the fridge and laid back on my bed, just as my phone rang in my pocket.
Dad.
Perfect.
“Hey Dad.”
“What the hell was that tonight, Shepherd? You get kicked off this team, and then what?”
Because hockey was all there was in my life. At least according to my dad’s values.
“I didn’t get kicked off the team.”
“This time.” There was a long pause as my father chose the speech he was going to fire off next. I took a long swig of beer to prepare myself. “You’re a legacy, Shepherd,” he began.
I knew this one. It went like this: I was part of a hockey legacy at Coldwater. My dad had been team captain, and my older brother played here before going pro his sophomore year. Now Blake played in the NHL, and had achieved everything my father had ever dreamed forhimself but hadn’t achieved because of his injury senior year.
The next part was about how I’d been accepted here without even a glance at my grades because of my family name, because of the sizable endowment my grandfather had made, which allowed them to build the rink on campus, and because of Blake’s ridiculous talent.
Notice how none if it had a goddamned thing to do with me? With who I actually am? That’s because none of that matters. The only things that matter about me are that I’m a Renshaw, that I’m good at hockey, and that my father is the esteemed Darren Renshaw, son of richer-than-god Palmer Renshaw.
When Dad wound down, I apologized for the fight, which he watched via the streaming link the coach sent him ahead of every game he didn’t attend in person.
“Just tell me it’s not gonna happen again, Shepherd.”
“It won’t.”
“Let Griff do his job. You do yours.”
I didn’t point out that the enforcer was down on the ice and that Griff getting hit was the whole reason I jumped into it in the first place. It wouldn’t matter.
“Yeah.”
