Page 56 of Playing Rough

I let him go and we pick everything up and head back to the car, hands linked. Neither one of us wants to stop touching.

As the sun sets, we start the long drive home. It doesn’t take long before London’s dozing against the window. I can’t believe the gift this imperfect, beautiful boy gave me today.

I've never felt closer to someone before. It's exhilarating but scary, this power he has over me now that I've fully let him in, and I don’t give a fuck what the world thinks. London Lancaster belongs to me.

22

RIOT

The snarlingengine of the bus rumbles beneath me as we pull up to the Silverton Arena. Crowds are already filing into the towering stadium, hungry for the game between us and the Silverton Sabers. The energy in the air is electric, setting my nerves on edge.

This will be my first game back after the one match suspension for leaving the Pinehurst game when London got injured. No regrets on that front—I’d drop everything again in a heartbeat if he needed me. But having to watch powerlessly from the stands while the team struggled last game still gnaws at me.

My place is on the ice with my team.

I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension coiled tight there. The stakes are high for tonight’s game if we want to keep our spot in the finals. And with our rhythm fucked from London’s absence, we need to be in sync.

My eyes find him as we disembark from the bus, duffel bags slung over our shoulders. London’s laughing with Knight about something, but I sense the underlying nerves in the set of his jaw, the tension lingering in his frame. I can read him so well now. This will be his first time back after the concussion and last night when we were in bed, he confessed how nervous he is. He feels like he’s got something to prove tonight—to the crowd, the team, but most of all, to himself.

He looks up and our gazes clash for a split second where everything else disappears. They flash like lightning behind storm clouds, telegraphing his determination to dominate this game. Then Teo bumps into my shoulder and I’m forced to look away from him and act like I don’t know what it feels like to be inside of him or how my name sounds rolling off his tongue when he’s coming.

Fuck, I wish we could have a moment alone before the game, just to check in. But the loud and crazy locker room kills any chance. The guys are rowdy, riding the pre-game high—chirping at London about him finally being back to pull his weight, teasing Deck about his superstitious game day rituals.

The mood is electric, vibrant, but beneath it simmers the current of competition, of the brutal battle awaiting us on the ice. We can pretend, but the promise of violence sings in our blood, tugging at that primal part of ourselves we try to tame in every other part of our lives.

I tune out the loud-ass chatter, focusing inward as I gear up. The familiar ritual soothes me, pulling me into the headspace I need to dominate the game. I shrug on my pads, the weight grounding. Next come the skates, their sharp edges glinting under the fluorescent lights. I lace them with practiced movements, each crisscrossing tug settling me further. The jersey slides over my head, the twenty-nine across my back blending me fully into the unit we become on the ice. No longer Riot, but part of the whole. The team. The helmet completes it, shutting out distractions, sealing me into the hyper-focus required in this unforgiving arena.

Ready for war, I look up and again my eyes seek out London. He looks as coiled and prepared as I feel. I try to channel strength toward him with just one look. Let him know I’ve got his back. That I know for sure he's capable and I trust him with everything I’ve got. His lips quirk and he nods once. Message received.

We move as one force toward the ice, sticks clacking together, hearts beating the war drum. The cheers hit us like a shockwave when we enter the rink, thousands strong, shaking the barn’s foundations. But I block it out. The only thing that matters now is the ice and my brothers beside me.

The puck drops, and we explode into motion. I get an assist early, sending the puck right to Mateo’s tape for our first goal, the red light flashing triumphantly. But there’s no time to celebrate. The game gets intense, with both sides crashing into each other with enough force to knock teeth out.

It doesn’t take me long to realize their strategy—the Sabers are targeting London. A-fucking-gain. Maybe they’re hoping to capitalize on any remnants of weakness from his injury. They think he’s fractured, fragile. An exposed nerve to twist. Or maybe they’re trying to bait me.

Fuck them.

I should've predicted their ruthlessness. Instead, rage clouds my vision as I watch them crash London into the boards again and again, piling on hits outside the bounds of fair play. The refs might as well be invisible with their blatant swallowing of whistles.

When number twenty-two delivers a nasty cross-check to London’s lower back, I see red. Before I can think, I’m barreling toward the piece of shit, gloves off and swinging wildly. We crash together, trading punches until his nose explodes with blood all over the place. My teammates swarm to pull us apart before the refs descend, shouting threats of penalties as they force distance between our scrum.

I shake off Mateo and Bear, chest heaving. I drew blood, so I’m definitely going to the box. My knuckles throb where they split against the bastard’s helmet, but it’s his busted nose and blackening eye that satisfies me. Let him think twice before targeting London again.

Across the now blood-splattered ice, London meets my eyes. I expect anger or exasperation. Instead, his eyes flash with gratitude and, fuck me, heat. I nod once and turn away before my traitorous gaze reveals everything between us. Like the fact I fucking love him. Or want to fuck him. Take your pick.

The refs are circling like vultures, waiting to make an example of me. Funny how they didn’t do shit when twenty-two was trying to lay out my man.

I escape with only two minutes in the sin bin for the fight. The Sabers player cried to the ref, but fuck him. His wounded face is the highlight of my day.

The fight riled up the crowd and now they’re hungry for more violence after they got a taste. Bloodthirsty assholes. The energy turns ravenous, feverish. My teammates ride the electric edge too, amped up and aggressive as we step back onto the ice for the second period.

We control the puck early but can’t convert against their brick wall of a goalie. Frustration mounts at each failed setup and missed shot. Meanwhile, the Sabers continue their targeted assault on London. Apparently, they didn’t learn the first time. I think I might have to kill someone out on this ice tonight.

After I hit back, they started hitting harder. Fuckers.

I boil watching their cheap shots and London’s barely contained fury. My focus splinters between monitoring him and trying to rally our flagging team. Our plays unravel, one mistake snowballing into the next until the Sabers capitalize, sinking two goals midway through the period to even the score.

The mood in the locker room during the last intermission is grim. Coach paces, face mottled red as he grills us on where shit went wrong. I only half listen, watching London rotate his shoulder with a barely concealed wince. He looks like he went a few rounds in a back alley brawl. I want to pull him aside, check that he’s okay, but now isn’t the time or place with the team on edge and morale low.

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