Chapter 9

I get her with that one.

Finally.

And relief is heady as she slides to a stop, turns to stare at me over her shoulder, that beautiful face covered in makeup.

Covered because of the bruises beneath.

I grind my back teeth together, fight against the urge to punch something.

I've done enough of that, the hole in the wall in my bedroom, the sore knuckles I'm sporting from the fight I got into last night more than enough reminder of that.

But it's her snapped out, "Fine," that actually pulls me back from the edge.

Then she lifts her brows.

"What is it?" I mutter.

She tosses her hair, gives a frustrated exhale. "Where's this office of yours?"

"Oh." I shake myself. "Right."

I move by her, snagging those stupid ass heels she has in her hands as I go.

"Hey!"

But I don't stop, just chuck them down the stairs in the vague direction of my shoe rack.

"Hey!"

And I keep walking, turning the corner around the stairs, starting down the hall. "I'll grab them later."

She huffs out a sigh but doesn't stop following me.

I'm aware of every step, every breath, every quiet hissed out murmur of pain.

And then I open the door and I'm aware of…

So. Much. More.

The soft curves of her body, the rounded bow of her mouth, the long, thick curl of her lashes, the smell of her hair.

"Oh,"she gasps, slowly stepping by me and moving into the room. "Wow."

Floor-to-ceiling shelves fill three walls of the space and the fourth is a full wall of windows surrounding a centered French door. Dark cabinets. Light pouring in through all of those windows.

I turn as she does, seeing the huge desk that takes up most of the space. A desk I love because I never feel cramped or crowded. I allow my gaze to run over the shelves filled with books and pictures of my family—a lot of the latter because there are a lot of Bang siblings in the world. Me, the oldest. Then Jakob, Jensen, Leif, Tanner, and I can't forget Annie, our only sister and the woman who keeps us all on our toes nearly as much as our mom does.

And my mom…

I hold back a sigh.

God, I love that woman, love that I always know she has my back and would kill herself to be there for all of us.

But my mother is recently retired and with an empty nest…she has far too much time on her hands to meddle in my life.

Trying to match me off.

Not knowing—or maybe knowing but not particularly caring that I don't want that.

The happy ending. The love-filled relationship. The soulmate connection she has with my dad.

That I can't have it.

You're not your father.

"You even have a reading chair," Rory whispers, jarring me out of my thoughts, seeing that she's completed her revolution of taking in the space and is now looking at me.

I shrug. "I like to read."

"I didn't know hockey players had it in them to be scholarly."

Wow.

I open my mouth, but I don't get the chance to retort.

Because she's exhaling through her nose, shaking her head, and holding my eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says, tone genuinely contrite. "That was bitchy and uncalled for." A sigh. "I'm not usually mean."

My mouth hitches up. "Except with me."

Pink on her cheeks, barely visible with all that makeup. "I'm sorry," she says. "Really."

I touch that faint spread of pink. "It's okay, Princess Pricklesticks," I say lightly.

"Still," she mutters. "I'm a jerk."

"Like I said, Princess of the Prickle, it's fine." And then I find myself adding when she rolls her eyes, the words just tumbling off my tongue, "Especially, considering how fucking beautiful you are when you're annoyed with me."

She inhales sharply.

Then winces and clamps a hand to her ribs.

"Damn," I mutter, carefully wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Sorry, princess. Come on and sit down." I guide her over to the desk. "I'll grab your computer." I pull the chair back, press her down into it. "Do you need anything else?"

She mutely shakes her head.

And I get the fuck out of the room before I say anything else stupid.

I don't leave the house until I peek in and see that she's firmly entrenched, not wanting to risk having to track her down again and piss off Jean-Michel for moving more than that inch.

So, it's only when I find her full on in the groove that I leave for the rink.

Practice time.

I actually like it—something that might be a surprise to most people. The monotonous drills, going through the same shit over and over again until it's just right, until it's muscle memory and happens with game speed without thinking.

It's routine.

It's comfortable.

It's planned and structured and good for me.

I may not be the best player, may not have the natural talent my dad did when he was playing, the same abilities as my brothers, the same beautiful instincts Annie had when she was competing for a gold medal, jumping and spinning in a way that I'll never be able to—with grace and power and speed.

I'm big, but not the biggest of my siblings.

I'm strong, but not the strongest either.

Not the funniest or the most laidback or the most talented of the Bang athletes.

But…I can work hard.

And I like that practice allows me to do that.

"So."

I turn, see that Pat—resident asshole on the Eagles, and unfortunately, there's usually always one…but with this team, there's plenty, so really Pat is the president of the assholes.

Do not engage.

I turn away, pick up the puck, start running through a series of stickhandling exercises. Toe to heel of the blade, up into the air, twisting to the side, then back down onto the ice and moving it around me, tracing a mental diamond on the ice, hitting some spots, dodging around imaginary obstacles, through my feet, back to front, side to side?—

Pat swings his stick at mine and?—

Crack.

My stick snaps in two, stinging pain radiating up my palms, my forearms.

See? Asshole.

Slashing—and breaking—my stick for some goddamned reason that only makes sense in Asshole Land.

Plus, I just retaped the blade, and it was a damned good tape job.

And yeah, we go through a lot of sticks every season, and the team pays for them and the rest of my equipment, but…

What the fuck?

I grind my teeth together, rotate on my skates just enough to meet his smirking eyes. "Did you need something?" I mutter, bending to grab the half of my stick that's resting on the ice.

He waggles his brows. "Did you fuck her yet?"

I still, my gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the halves of my stick, wanting to turn around and send it like a spear straight into this asshole's stomach.

Thankfully, I have more control—or more teeth to grind.

So, I just straighten, skate to the bench, stepping off the ice and dumping the broken pieces into a trash can before murmuring a "Thanks" to the equipment guy—who's ready and prepared as always—when he passes a fresh stick over to me.

Taped. Waxed. Prepped.

But not the one I wanted to use.

Not my lucky stick with the perfect tape job.

And it's because of the smirking bastard still standing on the ice, now blocking my entrance back to it.

"Is being an asshole in your genes?" I ask, stopping for a squirt of water. "Or just a skill you've honed over the years?"

Pat's a good hockey player.

But he's lazy.

And, as mentioned previously, an asshole.

However, he's not particularly smart, and I watch his dumb brow furrow, likely as he tries to process the words—had he ever heard the word hone before? It takes long enough that I'm able to nudge him back, to move by him, to skate back toward my little square of the ice and stickhandling practice. Drills are done, as well as the scrimmage, and we have the rink for some free time for the next half hour.

Rome's not far, so I bypass my spot, move over to him.

Strength in numbers.

Or maybe if I'm busy, the asshole will get a clue and leave me alone.

That's not to be.

Because Pat's either worked out what honed means or he's trying to run for reelection of the asshole presidency.

"I asked," he says, coming over and smacking the backs of my legs with his stick. Hard. Because…asshole. "If you've fucked her yet."

"I heard you," I snap. "And I'm not discussing a woman whose fiancé beat the shit out of her with you."

Something crosses his face and, for a second, I think he's going to be an actual human being.

But then, as quickly as it came on, that flash of humanity disappears and he's back to sneering. "Yeah." He smirks lasciviously. "You fucked her."

Thought about fucking her?

Damn right I have.

But would I prey on a woman who's been through what she's been through?

Fuck no.

And that he would so much as insinuate that?

Well, I want to say that I know he's just trying to piss me off and that I ignore him and go back to what I need to get done.

Unfortunately, I've been tabling my temper ever since I saw Rory on the side of the road with that bruise on her cheek and the handprint on her throat.

Rome's eyes widen. "King, just take a breath and?—"

I whirl on Pat, see he's sporting that dumb ass smirk, and?—

I punch it right off his even dumber face.