2. 2

2

Ant Decker

McGuire is so happy he’s almost vibrating. His stick is tucked under one arm and he’s showing so many teeth I’m surprised his lips haven’t cracked open. He has a slightly dazed expression as he does his best to stay within arm’s reach of Luddy.

Off the top of my head, I can’t think of a time I’ve seen someone look this stupid.

So far, I’ve caught him checking himself out in the glass twice, and we haven’t even hit the ice yet. He’s currently up front, right at the board, rocking on his skates to stop himself from bouncing on the spot. When he’s not looking at himself, he’s looking at the ice, sighing as if he’s experiencing the rapture. His eyes close as he breathes the cold in. Full, perfect lips curl into a full, perfect smile.

Don’t fall for it.

Don’t let that pretty face fool you. He’s not all that .

When Coach gives the signal, McGuire’s first over the board.

I’m second.

He does two full circuits before most of the guys have time to put skate to ice. He moves like water. Sure and smooth. A force that’s harnessed the sun and tamed gravity.

It pisses me off.

There’s a quiet murmur of reverence among the team members as they watch him. That pisses me off more. His speed is legendary in the league. I get that. What I don’t get is how no one else can tell he’s a show pony. A total flake without any substance. Sure, he had a blinding rookie season, I’ll give him that, but his performance has been on a downward trajectory every season since. It’s slight, but it’s right there in the numbers. Yet we traded good players for him. Dependable players. Players who’d proved their worth and spilled blood and sweat for this team. And for what? A player with potential?

Bitch, please .

Potential only means you ain’t done it yet.

It’s fucking ridiculous. I don’t know why everyone is so amped about having McGuire on the team. And I really don’t know why he’s so amped about being here. The Wranglers are a way better team. There’s no getting away from that.

I’d be livid if this trade happened to me. They’d have to strap me down and sedate me. It would take a horse tranquilizer, at minimum, to get me half as chill as this clown seems about life in general.

Coach has us warm up and run a few drills, and then we skate various line combinations, mostly, I suspect, to give McGuire a feel for the team. It’s a pretty light practice, given we play our first in-season game in two days. One of the Vipers’ coaching philosophies is that rest is a weapon. In-season practice is half-speed, half-strength unless we’re told otherwise.

Our coaches are more than happy to train us to near-death—the more puking, the better—during the runup to our exhibition games, but once the season starts, we focus on conserving energy for games and remaining as injury-free as possible.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a practice that would probably put the average human in the hospital. It’s just that we’re at peak condition, so for us, this is taking it easy.

“McGuire,” Santos, the head coach, yells, “I said half -speed.”

McGuire looks back, raising his chin to show he heard him like the up-your-ass good boy he wants everyone to think he is. He skates in a broad arc that ends with him at the bench, coming to a sudden stop that sends ice spraying and gives Coach a huge cocky grin.

“That was me at half-speed, Coach,” he says with a shrug.

Coach shakes his head and laughs as though it’s the funniest shit he’s ever heard. So does the rest of the team.

The seam of the thin film of patience I’ve spent years diligently cultivating begins to fray.

Coach calls a three-on-three. It’s Luddy, McGuire, and Thoms against Katz, me, and rookie defenseman Pejic. It’s a pretty even match, or it would be if Katz was at his best. He’s fresh from an ACL reconstruction that’s left him more cautious on the ice than in the past.

Luddy and McGuire pass the puck back and forth and swoop into our end zone. They get around Pejic without breaking a sweat and put the puck in the net twice before we have time to form a decent defense.

“Sweet!” yells McGuire, slinging an arm around Luddy’s shoulder.

Luddy pats him on the back and looks down at him like a proud papa bear. On the bench, Coach has his arms crossed over his clipboard and looks remarkably similar.

“Katz, look alive,” I say, stealing the puck from Luddy.

I make a break across the blue line. Thoms is nowhere, having made a mad dash toward Katz. The rink is open, a clear lane of white ahead of me. My arms and legs work, breath coming fast and hard.

Half-speed? Fuck that shit.

McGuire comes out of nowhere, stick connecting with mine as we fight for the puck. He wins it, but before he has time to wrist it to Luddy, I check him. Hard.

Half-strength? Fuck that shit too.

He hits the ice with a thud that knocks a soft oof out of him. He’s sprawled out, stick several yards from him. Limpid green eyes blink at me in slow confusion. I come to a stop at his feet. My back is turned to Coach and the rest of the team, so I laugh softly at the sight of him and say, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Vipers’ great hope flat on his ass.”

“Coach said half-strength, you dick.”

My lips twitch at the corners. A smile, a sneer, I can’t tell which. I lean forward, putting my hand out to help him up. Two can play this game.

“That was me at half-strength,” I say .

When he puts his hand out to take mine, I pull away just before we make contact. His face transforms before my eyes. There’s a furious flash of jade and his top lip pulls into a snarl that gives me a clear view of his mouthpiece.

See?

Told you he isn’t as sweet as he looks.

I admit, the sight of him like that, unmanned, on his back with his legs splayed open, gives me a rush. Adrenaline hits my bloodstream. My heart beats harder and faster, spreading warmth throughout my body.

I put my hand out again, and this time, our gloves knit together and I pull him up. As he finds his balance, I glance back at the bench and then lean closer to McGuire and say, “Fix your face, Princess, or they’ll all know you’re just as much of a dick as I am.”

There’s another flare. A flicker of rage that makes his eyes narrow. I love it. I love seeing him like this. And for so little effort.

Maybe it won’t be so bad having him on the team.

I release his hand and sweep my glove over his face, dusting his nose and cheeks just hard enough to give him the little bump he needs to take him from annoyance to fury.

It works .

He slaps my hand away.

I shove him.

He shoves me back harder, clenching his fist around the neck of my jersey and pushing me roughly. If I didn’t know who he was, the sudden violence of the action would have sent me skidding backward. Unlucky for him, it’s been years since I bought into his butter-wouldn’t-melt act, so I brace myself.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Princess? Too pretty to play?”

He shoves me again. His face is red and twisted, blotchy, and not nearly as pretty as it was a few minutes ago. I push him again. I use both hands this time because why the hell not. If I don’t, he will. The force, the exertion, the intention to attack and defend take over. My temperature rises. There’s heat everywhere, the kind of heat that feels like excitement. In my face. In my hands. Behind my eyes.

It’s hard to say who punches first, but suddenly, we’re both throwing hands—hard, unbridled punches that land on chest pads and glance off helmets. Coach is yelling and crossing the ice to get to us, and Luddy and Katz are on us, forcibly dragging us apart. McGuire and I are stuck to each other like magnets, snapping and snarling until they manage to put enough distance between us.

Coach has us cool down in separate stations. He keeps a watchful eye on both of us, though judging by the way he's looking at me, he’ll have a lot to say to me after practice.

Ugh.

Every eye on the team is on me. Slow, judgy looks from guys who are supposed to be my brothers. They’ve known McGuire for less than a minute, and they’ve already formed their opinion about who the asshole is in this equation. Nice.

Before practice ends, Coach has a quiet word with Luddy, tipping his head in McGuire’s direction as he talks, no doubt saying something along the lines of, “Talk to him, but be nice ’cause he’s the babiest babygirl in the whole wide world, so make sure he gets special babygirl treatment.”

“Decker,” he barks when he’s done. “My office, now.”

Santos is a decent coach. Fair and consistent. I don’t agree with everything he does, but I respect the man. He’s earned it. One thing I can’t pretend to like is his verbosity. God, he’s long-winded. Wordy in the extreme. Fortunately, I’ve had quite a lot of experience of being talked at by him, so I stand in front of his desk and let my mind wander. I drift for a while, planning my dinner—a meal that threatens to be more elaborate than I have the ingredients or know-how to put together—and then mentally check off the last few things I need to get done before our first game.

Now and again, I flit back into the conversation, looking at my feet and grunting in a way that resembles a close enough apology to placate him.

“Now let that be the end of it, you hear me?” Coach says with a finger pointing in my direction.

“Yes, Coach!” I reply with gusto.

The more I think about it, the more I believe I could make the creamy garlic parmesan chicken that popped up on my feed this morning. I don’t have cream or parmesan at home, but what if I use milk and cheddar? How much difference would that really make? It’s basically the same thing.

I take a slow amble to the locker room and am pleased when I find it nearly deserted. I have a strict limit in the amount of peopling I can handle with grace, and locker room banter has been historically proven to push me over that limit.

Fuck . I spot a couple of reporters as I leave the arena and head to my car. They have lariats with press passes around their necks, so they must have been at a press conference or something, but they shouldn’t be down here. I know it’s part of the job, but seriously, imagine spending your life waiting around in parking garages on the off chance you get to run into a player? I’m not judging, but it’s not my idea of a good time.

I keep my eyes straight ahead and increase my pace.

“Decker.” A smooth, baritone voice finds me from behind. “Wait up.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Please no.

Please do not tell me Golden Boy wants to hug it out and talk about his feelings.

It’s McGuire, so of course he does. His hair is damp and swept back off his face, light-brown with fine blond highlights, and he’s wearing a white puffer jacket that makes his skin look more tan than it is. He has a hand in one pocket and his brows raised in high, hopeful arcs.

It’s that, the hope, that gets under my skin.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I thought maybe we should talk…grab a beer or something, you know, just kind of try to clear the air.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

He’s very taken aback. He’s not used to people not falling over themselves the second they encounter his charm. His eyes widen. This close, I can see fine striations of fern and moss green fanning out against a golden-brown backdrop.

His eyes are hazel, not green .

I forgot about that.

He shows me the palms of his hands. A gesture that’s meant to set me at ease but does the exact opposite. “I’m not, uh, back there, what happened on the ice… I’m not that guy.”

“Really?” I quirk my lips. “Too bad, ’cause I am.”

His head whips back and he blinks in indignation. His lips pinch into such a small, tight O that they look like an asshole. One that’s clenching.

I’m about to tell him so when we’re accosted by the reporters. One is holding a recorder in our direction.

“Robbie, do you have anything to say about being traded to the Vipers?”

“Nah.” McGuire unleashes a thousand-watt smile. “That was a decision made by people who know a lot more about management and strategy than I do. I’m just here to play hockey.” I’m just here to play hockey? Seriously? “And I’m stoked to be playing for Seattle. The Vipers have been my team since I was a kid. For me, this is a dream in the making.” A dream in the making?

Someone needs to stop him.

His agent, that’s who. He needs to get down here stat and put a muzzle on this guy before the entire city finds themselves watching this shit on the news .

“Now,” says the reporter, looking so pleased with himself I’d bet you ten dollars I know what he’s going to say next, “much has been made about the rivalry between the two of you. Do you care to make a comment about that?”

Bingo. There it is.

McGuire doesn’t skip a beat. “As I’ve always said, Ant Decker is a player I have a lot of respect for. Our rivalry is fictitious and has been totally blown out of proportion over the years. It’s a case of quotes being taken out of context and used as clickbait, nothing more.”

The reporter turns his recorder to me. “And how do you feel about the latest addition to the Vipers?”

I tilt my head down so I’m speaking straight into the recorder. “It fucking sucks fucking balls.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the second reporter line up his camera. I turn microscopically and arrange my face into as much of a smile as I can muster. The bulb of the flash goes off with a pop that momentarily blinds me. With that, I thank the reporters for their time, unlock my car, get in, and drive off.

The photograph makes headlines in under two hours. It’s posted online and is picked up by TBS and TNT. Obviously, they can’t use my quote because of my language—and that’s no accident, by the way—but they replay McGuire’s over and over, cutting straight to the photograph of us each time.

Now, I’m not what one would call artistically minded. I can’t usually tell a masterpiece from my ass, but even I know this photograph is good. It’s really good. The lighting, the angle, the drama—impressive. I don’t often take a good picture because of my face and, well, my entire personality being what it is, but in this case, I look pretty damn good. I’m looking straight at the camera, my eyes are open—both of them—and I’m smiling. I don’t look violent or even a little angry.

Hmm. Maybe I should send a copy to Stacey. She might get a kick out of it.

There’s no such luck for McGuire. His face is twisted like it was right before he punched me on the ice, but worse. He’s looking up at me, nostrils flared, eyes filled with something people are universally programmed to recognize anywhere; venom.

Off-hand, I can’t think of anything that’s brought me more joy in, oh, the last five years at least.