Page 31 of Shiver
“Okay, out with the other shit. What?” I demand.
Shared glances and looking away. Avoiding my stare. Great. Now what?
“The guy who you walked here with,” Johnson begins.
“My tutor. Yeah. What about him?” I ask.
“He’s your magic tutor?” Haines asks, interest in his voice.
I nod. “Yep. He’s the reason I have a B average in all my damn classes. Including chemical systems. So, what about him?”
More silence as I lace up.
“You know he’s gay, right?” Jipson asks.
I pause before meeting his eyes. “The fuck?” I stand, grabbing my helmet and stick. Shaking my head in irritation, I leave the locker room. Seriously, are they really going to hop on that bullshit rumor that Temca is no doubt spreading?
Just when I manage to let go of the anger of Temca, it roars to life again. As does an unfamiliar desire to protect Rake from these stupid rumors.
I’m the second on the ice. Hart is already moving slowly around the rink’s perimeter. He’s fully geared up, but his stick is lying over the top of his net.
“Hart,” I say, tossing a couple pucks on the ice. Practice doesn’t start for another ten minutes. He looks my way as he rounds to his net. “Wanna let me shoot off some steam?”
He nods without speaking, taking his spot. Taking a breath and grabbing a puck with my stick, I glide to center ice. Moving slowly, willing my muscles to release the aggravation I’m holding on to, I spin around and make a completely illegal, high stick shot, sending the puck flying at Hart’s chest.
Hart shifts like lightning, catching in his glove. He lets it drop to the ice without a word. No comment about the bs shot or how fast it came at him. With his usual blank goalie face and dark, staring eyes, he watches me as I move to grab another puck.
I move my stick on the ice, keeping the puck attached to it before I spin around and send it hurling low this time. Once again, Hart stops it without issue. But this time, he sends it back to me. I catch it and skate with it around the rink, letting the cool air and hot, bright lights wash over me in equal measures.
With the next fast shot aimed for the top right of the net, I don’t change my smooth, slow stride as I head back in his direction. I let the shot fly at the center line, and he catches it in his glove.
Grinning, I catch the puck on my stick when he sends it back my way. “Rapid fire?” I ask.
Hart nods. He sends the first puck I sent him back my way and I grab a dozen more from the pail. Dumping them on the ice, I shift them about before looking up at Hart to see if he’s ready.
“Go,” he says, voice deep.
I send the first one fast, meant to go between his legs. He stops it just as I pull my stick back and crank the next one. This one goes a little wide, though still within goal range. It slams against his stick and ricochets away.
“Try harder,” he says.
Grinning, I send three more, hard and fast, one right after the other. The first and third he catches easily, but I’m pretty sure the second was a happy accident.
“Good thing there aren’t usually multiple pucks on the ice,” I call out.
“I’ll still stop them all, Wolf.”
Yeah, he will. And he does. I shoot all the pucks in front of me at him, one at a time, never pausing until they’ve all sailed toward him. He stopped the fast ones easily. It’s the one that I slipped up on that moseyed along toward him that he almost missed.
His laughter makes me grin. The man rarely laughs. “I’m glad we have a team of grown ass men. The shot a three-year-old would have sent my way nearly got through.”
“I slipped,” I defend.
His grin is taunting. “Yep.”
“You done out here?” I turn at Coach’s voice. He and the rest of the team are standing within the chute, watching. “Ready to share the ice with the team?”
I nod. “Sorry, Coach.”
