1. Weston

Liar.

Liar.

Fucking liar.

If there was a poster girl for all the liars in the world, it would be Renee DuBois. And I would be the moron staring at the poster with some pathetic, livestock-brained durrr gaze on my face.

It’s been weeks since I”ve seen her, but the rage is still a poison in my blood. Nothing quiets it. Not whiskey. Not work. Not smashing heads or ripping slapshots.

The worst part is there’s another poison still lingering, too. The poison of missing her. How ridiculous is that? She tore my life to pieces and my dumb ass still misses her.

“You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet.” Hunter waggles a brow at me.

I don’t need his shit—not now, not today, and especially not from someone who has been helping me stay drunk pretty much around the clock.

“Yeah, well, I can get a couple good nights of sleep and be back to my old self. You’re going to need plastic surgery to get my boot out of your face if you don’t shut up.”

He must sense a little extra venom in my voice today, because he doesn’t retort. He just kicks his feet up on my coffee table, pulls on his vape, and sighs.

I promptly shove his feet right off the table. I don’t give a shit about the furniture; I’m just spoiling for a fight, and he’s the closest thing I can punch. He’s been close for a while now, actually. Hasn’t left in days. It almost feels like he’s hiding from something.

To which I’d say: join the fuckin’ club, man.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“I’m not leaving you here.” He shakes his head. “You aren’t gutting yourself on my watch.”

“I’m not suicidal, dickhead. I like me too much to hurt me. You, on the other hand… I don’t like you very much at all.”

“Par for the course. Don’t you have practice to go to?”

I do, and it’s the only reason I’m so painfully sober at the moment. “I don’t need you to tell me when I have practice. You’re not my goddamn mother.”

He’s still laughing when I snatch my bag up and storm out the door. If I wasn’t already late, I’d go back in and keep snarling at him.

Instead, I drive like I have nine lives to the arena, whip the car into the lot, and then sit for a minute wondering why I even bothered to show up.

On a normal day, the answer is because I love this game. Today, though, I’m baffled. I consider turning the car around and saying Fuck it, but I don’t. I’m mad and stubborn enough to go inside and get dressed.

If I have to be here, I might as well wear myself out so I can sleep tonight.

Sleep is hard to come by these days.

Practice starts well enough. I run through warmups mindlessly. It’s the scrimmage where it all goes to hell.

We scrimmage with the first and fourth lines against the second and third. On a normal day, no one screws with me too much. It’s a light and easy game, everyone all buddy-buddy, all on the same team.

But the new rookie who just got a call-up from the minor leagues to help strengthen the third line came to play like he’s got stuff to prove. He makes a move, steals the puck, and scampers away to center ice.

Growling, I chase the little bastard down and give him a shove. Not quite a cross-check, but not a love tap, either. And not, strictly speaking, “legal.”

He bounces up, drops his stick, and takes a wild swing that misses my face.

Oh, hell no.

I take a wild swing of my own. Mine connects.

WHAM. Fist meets jaw. The rook goes down like a bag of rocks and stays down. When he finally peels himself up to a seated position, I see bloody gum where a tooth once was. Hands drag me away from the scene of the crime and voices whisper in my ear.

“Easy, man!”

“Calm the fuck down, West!”

“He’s just a stupid rook! Let him go!”

From the far side of the ice, Coach Hud is screaming something unintelligible at me. He spits his whistle out, then beelines toward me, spraying me with snow when he stops. His eyes are huge, angry, black. “Get the hell off my ice, Scott.”

“He swung at me first!” I protest. I sound like a toddler and I hate myself for it.

“He’s a rookie. You should know better. Get off my ice, pack your shit, and go home. You’re done for today.”

My jaw drops. “You can’t do that!”

”Pretty sure the sign on my door says Coach and that means I sure as hell can.” Hud shakes his head. “You”re not in the right headspace to play right now, man.”

”My headspace is just fucking dandy.”

“It”s not, and you”re a danger to your teammates until you can figure out how to pull the damned thing out of your ass. Take the weekend and sort through your shit. If your head”s on straight, you can come to practice Monday. If not, let Decker know. We”ll make other arrangements for the next game.”

Fuck me.

This is supposed to be my season. My run for the cup. My record-setting year. A C on my jersey. And now, I’m teetering on the cusp of losing it all.

Because of her.