Page 73 of Her Name in Red
Practice in 40. Talk later?
No.
Maybe.
Don't track me again or I'll gut you.
I shouldn't find that hot. The fact that I do confirms I'm completely fucked in the head now.
Yes, ma'am
She doesn't respond, but I know she's read it. I can picture her scowling at her phone, hair a mess, maybe still naked in bed. The image makes my cock stir despite my exhaustion.
I shove my phone in my pocket and grab my gear bag, wincing at the weight. Every muscle in my body aches—from the sex, from the violence, from carrying the body to the dumpster two blocks away while Maren kept lookout.
The walk to the rink is a blur. My mind keeps replaying his final moments in sick, slow motion, the way his eyes bulged, the gurgling sound he made.
It's almost funny. I'm on the verge of losing everything I spent years building, and all I can think about is whether Maren's bruises from my fingers have bloomed on her hips yet.
The locker room is empty when I arrive. Perfect. I strip down and change into my gear.
I'm on the ice fifteen minutes early, the blade of my skates cutting through the fresh surface with a satisfying hiss. The rink is silent except for the sound of my movement—the scrape of ice, the whistle of air as I pick up speed. I push myself into a series of sprints, edge work that would normally burn my thighs after the third repetition. Today, I barely feel it.
My stick slaps against the ice as I weave through imaginary defenders.
A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. Coach is standing at the boards, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. I pretend not to notice, but I can feel his eyes tracking me as I execute a tight turn that would have sent me sprawling yesterday.
“Rhodes,” he calls out finally. “My office after practice.”
I acknowledge him with a curt nod, not slowing down.
The doors to the rink bang open as my teammates start filing in. Murphy's the first on the ice, eyebrows shooting up when he sees me already drenched in sweat.
“The fuck, Rhodes? You sleep here or something?” he asks, skating over.
“Just motivated,” I answer, shooting the puck into the empty net with more force than necessary.
“Yeah? That why you've been dodging my texts? Motivation?”
I turn to face him, something cold settling in my chest. “Got better things to do than babysit your sorry ass through calc, Murph.”
“Whatever, man,” he mutters, skating away as more guys hit the ice.
Coach blows his whistle, and we gather around for drills.
“Line drills, let's move!” Coach bellows, and the team groans in unison. I don't make a sound, just push off the ice and position myself at the front.
“First group! Rhodes, Martinez, Jenkins, Perkins!”
I launch forward before Coach's whistle even hits his lips, my skates digging deep, spraying ice as I accelerate. I can feel the others struggling to keep pace, their heavy breathing at my back like distant white noise. I hit the far blue line and pivot, cutting back so sharply that Martinez has to swerve to avoid collision.
“Jesus Christ, Rhodes!” he spits, but I'm already halfway back, leaving them in my wake.
Coach doesn't say anything, just tracks me with narrowed eyes as I finish the drill five strides ahead of everyone else.
“Again!” he barks, and I'm off, muscles burning in a way that feels good, cleansing.
By the third repetition, Perkins is bent over, hands on knees, gasping. “Slow the fuck down, man,” he wheezes when I skate past. “It's practice, not the Olympics.”
