Page 57 of Playing Rough

Not to mention we’re not ready to come out to them.

Deck tries to rally us with one of his motivational speeches, but his words can’t seem to penetrate the dark mood. My thoughts keep spiraling back to London and how much more punishment he can take tonight.

I’m clenching my stick so hard it bites into my palms and I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. Tris sidles over with a water bottle, Eli on his heels.

“You good, Ri?” Tris asks, assessing me with a furrowed brow. “You seemed pretty on edge out there whenever the Sabers targeted London.”

I force myself to exhale, trying to unwind the tension coiled tight as a spring. “Just want to protect my team. Sabers are playing dirty as hell.”

Tris and Eli exchange a look loaded with meaning I don’t understand.

“True,” Eli says carefully. “But you seemed ready to tear heads off whenever London took a bad hit. Kinda seemed... personal.”

I blow out a frustrated breath, defensive anger spiking through me. Can’t they see London’s taking the worst of it tonight? Besides, I can’t exactly tell them I can’t handle watching the Sabers come at my boyfriend. “We’re teammates. Would’ve done the same if it was any of you out there.” My voice comes out sharper than intended.

Tris holds up his hands. “Woah, hey. We just want to make sure your head’s on straight for the game. No judgment.”

I force myself to uncoil, regretting snapping at them. They’re just trying to cover my ass. “You’re right, Tris. Sorry. Just on edge and want us to take these fuckers down.”

Eli claps me on the back. “We’ve got your back, brother. Let’s go show these Sabers what happens when they mess with our boy Lancaster.”

Tris grins and fist bumps my shoulder. “Hell yeah. We’re ending this shit tonight.”

Their show of solidarity loosens the iron band around my chest, and I offer a small smile back. It’s forced, but whatever.

Their curious looks make it clear my reaction to London didn’t slip by unnoticed. A problem to worry about later. Right now, we have a game to win.

Back on the ice, we claw our way to a slim lead to start the third period, but exhaustion drags at us. The Sabers smell blood in the water. A mistake now could finish us.

I force my legs to pump harder, skates chewing at the ice. But everything feels sluggish, my reactions too slow. London’s hit once again and this time stays down on his knees, head bowed. Before I can intervene, the ref’s whistle slices the air.

Penalty. Sabers. The crowd boos their displeasure, but I feel savage satisfaction. Let them pay for the damage they’ve done tonight.

Coach calls a timeout so London can recover. As we circle up for the power play, I finally get a good look at him. Fresh bruises mottle his skin and his eyes are glassy with pain. Everything in me clenches with the need to shield him, take him away from this violence. But all I can do is offer words of encouragement as Coach draws up a plan to press our advantage. London meets my gaze and I will every ounce of strength I possess to flow into him.

The game drags on, minutes bleeding away painfully slow. We dig deep but can’t get insurance. All the Sabers need is one slip up from our exhausted team to tie this game and destroy our shot at the championships.

Only thirty seconds left. We just need to hold them off. My legs shake, muscles screaming, but I keep pushing. I can rest when this is over. When we’ve won.

Ten seconds. I block out the crowd roar, the shriek of skates, all of it narrowing to the ticking clock. Five seconds. A Saber breaks away with the puck. I give desperate chase, but I’m a stride too slow. Time dilates as he winds up for the shot that could ruin everything we’ve fought for tonight.

But then London is there, a lightning bolt shooting across the ice. He throws himself in front of the blistering shot, knocking the puck away a split second before the buzzer sounds.

We’ve done it. Barely.

The team crashes together in a clench of heaving chests and thumping helmets, roaring our victory. But my eyes find London as the crowd boos and throws shit onto the ice at their team’s loss. He looks utterly spent, hands braced on knees, head hanging low with sweat dripping onto the ice. But when he lifts his eyes to meet mine, I see pride burning there, and a deep-seated satisfaction. He took everything they threw at him and still came out on top.

In the locker room, a different energy hangs over the team. Winning with a low-key vibe. We know we scraped this win by the skin of our teeth. But together, we were just strong enough.

London settles beside me, wincing as he bends to untie his laces. Now that the adrenaline is fading, the toll of the game shows in the stiff set of his shoulders and the occasional grunts and sounds of pain.

My fingers itch to reach for him. To make him feel better as we sit here, bruised but not broken. But the busy locker room offers no privacy for the things I want to say… and do.

Our eyes meet and I mouth the wordsI love you, unable to resist the temptation.

I settle for skimming my fingers lightly over his forearm. The touch is so brief I can almost pretend it never happened. But London inhales sharply at the contact, the sound lost beneath the ambient noise of the team. He doesn’t pull away, though. Just lets my fingers sit against his battered skin.

The simple contact only makes me crave more. I wish I could give him a big hug and make it all better after that tough game. You know or drop to my knees and suck him off. But we have to wait until we're alone.

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