Page 30 of Phantom Faceoff
“Hey now! I’m serious.” I wait for Julian to get a hold of himself, finally wiping a stray tear from his eye. “That guy is wound tighter than a competition yo-yo. I just want to know if he even knows how to relax.”
He smiles and bumps his shoulder on mine. “Maybe you could help him relax.”
“I think he’d rather eat gravel.”
Why does everyone keep rolling their eyes at me?
“I mean it. I want the three of us to havefun.Be your natural, charming self, and Mal will fall in line.”
I think he is massively overestimating the charm, but he’s smiling at me all excited, and you know? Why not.
What is the worst Malachi Blanchard could do to me?
The worst—it so happens—isdistractingme.
Julian takes to the ice beautifully. A little wobbly but a quick learner. Malachi on the other hand?
“Do I need to get out the pads? I do not claim responsibility for whatever bruises you acquire fromsucking so bad.”
The man has fallen on his ass more times than I can count, and as someone who is shoved, smacked, and tackled to the ice on a regular basis, that’s saying something.
“Shut it.” Malachi’s glare should instill some sort of fear in me. Instead, it lights a fire of excitement.
“Hey, Julian. Wanna see how many laps we can do around Blanchard before he gets to his feet?”
There’s something on the tip of his tongue. I can see it, but he bites it back and grins, looping his arm with mine. “Skate away.”
I don’t ask, because whatever is going on between the two of them is none of my business, but that doesn’t mean I’m not filled to the brim with curiosity.
Remember that tidbit about being distracted? Well …
“Oh my God, will you slow down?” Julian’s voice is filled with laughter as he shouts across the rink.
Years of conditioning and training put me at a bullet on ice, and even a casual skater would fall behind. Much less a newbie.
Maybe I’m showing off a little. Maybe I like how impressed Julian is by something that I sometimes feel mediocre at surrounded by other players.
And then I catch a look on Malachi’s face that throws me completely off kilter.
Soft and sweet Malachi is strictly reserved for Julian. So much so, that I’ve never even met the guy. Seen bits and pieces in passing, but never the real thing.
At first, that’s what I think I’m seeing. But as I lap, I notice his gazed is tracked onme.
Gray eyes follow my every move, and yeah—okay—I admit that I let my concentration slip. I stop being aware of what’s around me because my heart is pounding so hard there’s blood pumping out a heavy bass in my ears.
I’m still skating, still playing carefree, maybe being a little extra brazen because Malachi is nowhere near as easily impressed as Julian.
I don’t hear Julian call out to me. I don’t notice him holding his arms out, struggling to stop.
We collide, and any other time, I’d laugh it off. The ice is hard and unforgiving, and I’m going to have a couple good bruises to explain away to Coach. Still, a little humor always saves the day.
But Malachi shouts, and suddenly the scene that’s been playing in my head like a reverbed record bursts into crystal clear sound.
“Jules! Fuck, are you alright?” Halfway across the rink, Malachi is tossing his skates off—he still hasn’t gotten the hang of moving without holding onto the wall—and skidding across the ice in his socks.
I snap my attention to Julian, face contorted in pain as he holds his hand over his forearm, streams of red leaking through his fingers.
Shit.
