Page 38 of These Wicked Games
“Go back to the hotel, boys. With smiles on both your faces and fists at your sides if you can manage it.”
eleven
Oli
Our hotel door rattles as I slam it shut behind me. Thankfully the ride over and walk up here was blissfully silent. I know neither of us feel good about what happened. Yes we hate each other, but shit like what just happened is unheard of. Never touch the goalie. I assaulted my own on national TV. Note to self: avoid all press going forward. Melanie, our PR agent, is probably working overtime right now. Shit. I’ll have to make it up to her.
I just want to go to fucking sleep. I’m too wired, though. This restlessness in my bones hasn’t left me since Andre got signed, and I don’t know what I can do to make it stop. I haven’t been able to relax since checking into this fucking hotel either. I try and fail to ignore the asshole I room with. The game should almost be over and I doubt we’ll be winning. Shame hits me now.
I can’t believe I lost control like that. I need to talk to Coach. The last thing I need is to room with Andre every time; it’s already fucking things up. Maybe if I grovel at his feet, promise him I’ll get along with Andre . . . or whatever getting along would even look like between us. Something has to change, though. I’m too distracted. I haven’t slept.
“I really thought you were better than this, Oli.”
Slowly I turn to Andre, who’s peeling off his shirt. “What?”
“Can I add hearing loss to all the other things that seem to be wrong with you? Shitty captain, shitty listener, shitty friend.”
“I’m not your friend!”
“Not my teammate either. You do shit to help me on the ice!”
“Me? Why are you even in the net if you aren’t going to stop anything? I know it must be hard to do anything without daddy dearest helping you, but I thought you knew that much!”
“Fuck you, Oli. You know what would have helped? I may have let in goals but your team only scored two. Shitty fucking defense. Taking zero fucking shots! Pathetic.”
“No, what’s pathetic is having everything handed to you, then cheating your way to the top, and still sucking at blocking shots. What, daddy didn’t train you enough?” Andre shoves me backward. Rage balls in my chest. This prick.
“You have no fucking clue what I’ve been through to get here!” he growls, pushing me harder and surprising me as I fall against the wall.
“Don’t fucking touch me again.”
Andre squares up. He’s almost as tall as me, but I’m bigger. I don’t feel like it, though, when he’s so close like this. When we’re breathing the same air.
Out of every player that could have filled Rocky’s spot, this asshole got the job? Once again, Andre is handed shit where other people have to earn it. No one can convince me this was the best option. “You don’t know shit about what I’ve been given. How I’ve trained, and what that man has taught me.”
“You’re a spoiled fucking brat who fucked me over so I’d lose my chance. You stabbed me in the back!”
“I got signed after you left—”
“Left! I was kicked out!”
“Because you assaulted me! They would have just put you in a program. I don’t know what you think I did, but I’d never hurt your chances! Ever.” The way his voice breaks almost makes me pause. Those hazel eyes waver, just for a second, turning to glass before they harden. “You were my best friend, Oli.” He punches my chest. It’s a weak hit, though. “Why would I do that to you? How would I even do that?”
Isn’t that the question I’ve asked since it happened? Again, I come up blank. “Because you’re a snake, Andre. You stabbed me in the back so the Vipers would choose you instead! I was the only thing standing in your way.”
“Look at what you’ve become, Oli. Your mother wouldn’t want—” I swing. I don’t think. My fist connects with his cheek. Andre stumbles back and it’s like my mind shuts down. Rage unfurls around me like phantom hands guiding my every move. I clutch onto his shirt and punch again. And again. And again.
Andre struggles, pushing me away while trying to get the grip I have on his shirt to lessen. I can’t. I’m too pissed. My hold lightens up a touch. I’m fucking shaking. I’m going to kill him. “Don’t everfix your filthy fucking mouth to talk about my mother.” My voice is calm, but it roars inside me. “Ever.”
Quick fear flashes through those hazel eyes, making the gold in them darken. “Oli—”
“I hate you.” I swing again but my mind is clouded. I’m not paying attention and I miss. Andre swings out of my hold, kicking the back of my knee. I go down, stunned by the sudden impact.
Bracing against the bed, I get up and turn on Andre. He looks half ready to kill me and half frightened for his life. Something else laces over his gaze and I don’t know what it is. Heat pools in my belly, and I move on instinct.
I charge. Andre moves faster, running toward the bathroom and slamming it shut. I catch it, nearly shutting my hand in the door. I bang it open. Wood rattles against the plaster. Andre cranks his neck, looking around, maybe for a weapon of some kind. “Oli—”
“I’ve fucking had it.” I stalk to him. Andre backs up to the sink. I see myself beyond him in the mirror and I’m nearly taken aback by the rage that covers me. I’ve had it with Andre fucking Tavares. “You come here, to my fucking team, and act like you belong. You are a guest in my fucking house.” I keep stalking. “That’s my team, my brothers.” Andre breathes heavily and it’s now I realize how close we are.
