Curses erupt in the arena, along with a few cheers from the Razors’ fans scattered in the seats.
Colt’s head hangs, and he skates back into position at the center of the rink, preparing for another shot at scoring. Once he gets the puck, the opposing team rushes him, leaving Theo wide open. Colt ignores him, going head-to-head with two defensemen but loses the puck at the last second.
Again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sanderson yells while boos echo throughout the stands.
“Come on, Thorne! He was wide open!” someone in the audience screams.
The man has a point.
Coach benches Colt a few minutes later after another screw-up, and Burrows takes his place as center. With a loud crack, Colt chucks his helmet against the half-wall separating the bench from the ice and collapses onto the stretch of seats. Clearly, the guy’s upset. Which isn’t like him. He’s usually pretty levelheaded, especially when he’s on the ice. He isn’t known for fighting or spending a lot of time in the penalty box. But right now? He looks seconds from punching someone, and his sights are set on his best friend. Colt throttles the hockey stick balancing between his bent knees, his hair damp with sweat as he glares at Theo on the ice. My attention shifts between them a few more times, my pulse thrumming faster and faster.
He knows.
He has to.
Depp steals the puck from the Razors’ left wing and passes it to Burrows. He skates over the blue line but snubs a wide-open Theo, too, passing it to Logan instead. Within a millisecond, Logan is slammed against the glass by the Razors’ defenseman who was right freaking next to him.
Good one, Burrows.
The puck is chipped off the board fast as lightning, gliding across the blue line and back into enemy territory.
“Come on! Get your head in the game! Theo was wide open!” Coach yells. With his face red and angry, he waves his clipboard toward the team captain who’s been completely ignored since the first whistle blew. Meanwhile, Theo looks like he’s about to blow a gasket as he skates toward Burrows, the game forgotten. When they reach each other, they both start talking, their postures practically feral. The crowd is so loud it’s blocking out whatever’s being said between them, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it isn’t good. Burrows slams his stick against the board, and pushes off the ice, skating even closer while Theo moves a couple of feet back, keeping distance between them without actually retreating. Nope. The guy is about two seconds from losing his shit in front of everyone and is just waiting for Burrows to throw the first punch as Burrows flings his gloved fist toward the bench.
“Not sure what’s going on between twenty-one and thirty-three on the home team, but––whoa! Looks like there’s a fight about to break out between teammates,” the announcer says over the speakers.
Burrows shoves at Theo’s chest, and Theo grabs onto his jersey, ready to throw a punch when Depp and Tukani intervene, tearing the two apart. The referee blows his whistle and announces a delay of game penalty on LAU.
Theo and Burrows head to the penalty box on the opposite side of the rink, leaving Logan to fend for himself as our only offensive player for the next two minutes. The combination only makes Coach more frustrated. He paces back and forth in the small space behind the players, cursing under his breath as the opposing team scores another goal on Tukani a minute later. Sanderson calls for a timeout, and the players on the ice skate toward the bench.
When everyone’s gathered, Coach slams his clipboard against his thigh and seethes, “What the hell was that about? Do any of you know?”
“Ask Blake,” Logan suggests, tilting his head toward me. “Or Colt,” he adds, but the bastard’s smart enough to not look at him. Pretty sure if he did, there’d be two more Hawks in the penalty box.
Screw you, Logan, I think to myself as Sanderson turns around slowly and stares me down. Not gonna lie, the guy’s intimidating on a good day. He has to be to keep the players in line. But having his astute attention solely focused on me? I break out into a cold sweat in two seconds flat and fist the long sleeves of my gray LAU hoodie into my palms while feeling like a helpless baby gazelle.
“There a problem, Baby Thorne?” he demands, his tone laced with accusation.
I shake my head. “No problem.”
Unconvinced, he orders, “Wait in the locker room. Once the game is finished, I think I need to make an announcement.”
An announcement?
The blood drains from my face.
Like what? Is he firing me?
“Now, Thorne,” he grits out through clenched teeth.
Dread pools in my stomach, but I force myself to nod. “Yes, sir.”
My legs tremble as I turn on my heel and walk back to the locker room, every possible scenario swirling around in my brain until I’m pretty sure I’m gonna puke.
I screwed up. Well, not only me, but I am the catalyst. Okay, it’s not entirely true, either. My stupid virginity was the catalyst. Which is ridiculous. But it doesn’t change anything. Because of me, there was a fight on the ice during our first game. And now, my head’s on the guillotine. I pace the locker room back and forth, tossing around every possible announcement Coach could make, but none of them ease the knot in my chest. If anything, it only tightens, making me lightheaded and more anxious than ever.
I can’t lose this internship. Not after everything I’ve sacrificed to get here. There were countless applicants. Countless. But I was the one who made the cut. I was the one who clicked with Russ. I was the one who worked my ass off, bending over backward at my last school. Studying. Kissing up to the right people. Biting my tongue in spite of the asshole comments people would make because I have a freaking vagina instead of a penis between my legs. I’ve dealt with all of it and managed to keep my head held high the entire time. And there isn’t a chance I’m going to let Coach take it away from me all because of a stupid one-night stand with a stupid boy who will never see me as anything but his best friend’s stupid little sister.
Nope.
Not a chance.
The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, and the team piles into the locker room for their break before the second period. Next to the last row of lockers, I shift my weight from one foot to the other with my arms crossed over my chest and a dull hum in my ears.
Waiting.
Suffocating.
Anxiety gnawing on every inch of my confidence with the knowledge of how quickly things can spiral out of control if Coach feels like pulling the final thread.
From the tunnel, a low growl reverberates off the cinder block walls before Theo meets my gaze, stalking into the room with his helmet hanging from his clenched fist, frustration rolling off him in waves. He’s followed by a raging Colt, who’s sporting a fresh bruise on his left cheekbone, although I have no idea who put it there.
Sanderson slams his hand against his clipboard as he enters the room, glaring at the team and barking, “What the hell was that out there? Huh, Taylor? Thorne? Burrows? Fucking everyone? Refusing to pass to your fellow player, then roughing with your own teammates? Not to mention the score or the fact we’re zero to three after the first period in our first game. There are scouts on those benches, gentlemen, and you’re doing a bang-up job of making the other team look good.” He turns to Colt and shakes his head. “And the sucker punch on the opposing team in the final three seconds of the period, Thorne? What were you thinking?” His nostrils flare, and he folds his arms, waiting for someone to answer him. “What the fuck is going on?”