22. Zane

22

ZANE

The score is tied.

The Firebirds have only had seven shots on goal, but four of them have gone in. It's been all I can do to keep us level. But it won't matter if Cole doesn't get his ass in gear.

"What the fuck is going on?" I skid to a stop in front of the goal.

"Talk to the D," Cole spits, flinging an arm towards Davis and whichever of the rookies is subbing in for Nathan on the first line. I think it's Grant, but I don't turn around to check. "They're letting everything through."

"They're not the reason you're letting two-thirds of the shots in," I bark. "I'm about to ask Lars to take over."

Cole's eyes narrow. "I can handle my shit just fine, Whitaker. Worry about your position; I'll worry about mine."

"Subs are called by Coach," someone behind me says. "Not you."

I turn around and it is Grant. He's watching me carefully.

He's one of Carson's goons, and I know that by the time we hit the showers, there will be whispers that I'm power-hungry.

"You're right. Because if it was up to me, you'd be parked on the fucking bench!" I can practically feel the cameras around the rink zooming in. The commentators are probably living for this drama. "Cole wouldn't have shots to fend off if you were doing your goddamn job."

Grant starts to mutter something under his breath, but I'm not in the mood to brawl with my own teammate. I skate past him and get into position.

"You good?" Jace asks.

I should ask him the same thing. Gallagher is home sick and Rachelle called to say she was coming down with the same thing as we were boarding our flight. I know he's been distracted, and it shows. He should be the one kicking Cole's ass into gear, but instead, he left it up to me.

I shrug him off, grinding my molars together to work out some of the frustration simmering under my skin.

It's wild to think I came into this game feeling great. Even the promise of a postgame red eye flight back to Phoenix couldn't dampen my spirits.

If anything, knowing I'd be back home before the sun came up tomorrow made me feel even better.

Mira is committed to our family.

I left Phoenix knowing that she'll still be there when I get back. I also left with a quickie in the shower that Mira promised was just a sample of what I'd get when I came home to her.

The fact that I have the image of her full lips wrapped around my cock playing on a loop in my thoughts, and yet I'm still the only person on this ice with my head in the game, is insane.

The puck drops and Jace slices it to Reeves. The defenders have been on my ass all night, so I've had to fight for even the slimmest of openings.

Reeves charges forward, and I cut towards the net to find a through line, but he loses the puck to the Firebirds' right wing. I curse under my breath and follow the puck, only to see Grant steal it back.

Maybe the rookie isn't useless after all.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I watch Grant turn to me, and I swear I hear ominous background music. Like I'm being circled by sharks in Jaws .

Reeves is wide open and off to Grant's left. He's the move. Grant should pass to him.

But the puck is already moving towards me.

I have to look down-ice to complete the pass, and I curse before I even touch the puck. Because I know this isn't going to end well.

Grant knew it, too.

The second the puck is in my possession, a wall of muscle slams into me from my blind spot. Both Firebirds defensemen drive me into the plexiglass, and I fucking crumple.

As I crunch against the boards, the only thing I can think is what Aiden must be thinking. I know he and Mira are watching the game at home.

Is he scared?

As soon as the defensemen give me the space, I stand up, though pain is scorching through every inch of me. But fuck the pain—I don't want Aiden to see me lying on the ice. I don't want him to worry for even a second that something bad might happen to me.

The world isn't on its usual axis and my legs are wobbly, but I'm fine.

My ears are ringing and there's no other feeling quite like having your lungs crushed like Whoopee Cushions, but… I'm fine .

Grant, however, is dead.

Before I can do what I should have done earlier and elbow Grant in the jaw, Reeves is in front of me. "Sit down, man. You got wrecked."

I brush him off. "I'm fine."

"No, you just got checked by two of the biggest defensemen in the league. Sit. The fuck. Down." Reeves waves an arm over his head and the medical team is already skating towards us.

"It was a fucking suicide pass," I grit out. "He knew I was going to get rocked. Grant knew ."

I may have a concussion, but I also know it wasn't all Grant's idea. Carson put him up to it.

Carson is also the reason half the guys on the squad think I'm planning to cut and run to another team.

I'm fine to walk, but I sling my arms over the shoulders of the med team, anyway. They're trying to do their jobs, and I'm not going to make it harder for them.

I drop onto the bench and lights flash in my eyes, checking my pupil dilation. They're asking me questions, but I barely register my own answers. Carson is buzzing around, watching the action like his career depends on it.

Probably because it does.

"Is he good to go?" Coach asks.

Before the med team can answer, Carson growls, "He needs a sub. I'll go in."

At the start of this game, I would've held my tongue. Now, I'm just pissed off enough to be a little stupid.

"This is the only way you can get any ice time. Is someone gonna hobble me in the parking lot at the next game?"

"I didn't do a fucking thing. I was on the bench while you handed the game away," he spits.

Cindy zips the first-aid bag and gives me an apologetic smile. "He should sit the rest of the game out. I don't see signs of a concussion, but just to be safe."

"Deluth." Coach tips his head towards the ice. "You're in."

Carson might as well shoot off party poppers as he skates onto the ice. He looks every bit as proud of himself as I know he is.

Reeves adjusts his helmet. "I should let that asshole get checked and see how he takes it. Fifty bucks says he cries."

"Don't." As much as I want to see Carson get exactly what he has coming for him, I won't do it at the expense of the team. "Carson and Grant work well together, but don't expect Grant to watch your back. Get the puck to Carson when you can. He's an asshole, but he's a good shot."

Reeves gives me a two-finger salute and I slump on the bench.

Coach is standing next to me, arms crossed, eyes on the ice. "You're a bigger man than I am, Whitaker."

"You'd let Carson get checked?"

I don't actually believe it. No one is more even-keeled than Coach. He keeps his mouth shut and his head down. It's hard to get embroiled in drama when you mind your own fucking business.

He shrugs noncommittally. "I wouldn't stop it if someone else wanted to make it happen, I'll tell you that. Not if someone had given me as much trouble as Carson has given you."

"Is that why you weren't captain of your team? Too set on revenge?"

Coach bites back the start of a smile. "I wasn't captain, but I learned something important: you don't need a ‘C' sewn into your jersey to be a leader."