Chapter 12 - Stone

“Get up, Callum!”

My alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, and he’s still not so much as stirring.

I march over to his bed, only one arm in the sleeve of my shirt as I shove the other one through. I stand above him, peering down. He looks so damn peaceful, his full lips parted. A dark spot on his pillow shows where he was drooling in his sleep. I hate to wake him, but…

“We’re going to be late for practice if you don’t get up.”

It’s not until I kick the bottom of his bed frame that he finally jerks awake. He blinks up at me a few times before his gaze focuses. He goes still, then his face relaxes.

“Did you get drunk last night?” I ask, my brows tightening.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Something like that.”

I scoff and walk away to sit on my own bed so I can pull on my shoes. “Great. Determined to make us lose by even more tonight, huh?”

“Nah.” He stretches, and I can’t keep my gaze from drifting over the rippling muscles in his back. “I have a good feeling about the game tonight.”

“You must still be drunk,” I mutter as I stand back up and slip my hoodie on over my head. Grabbing my bag, I head for the door. “See you downstairs. Hurry the fuck up.”

As it is, I’ll be right on time to meet everyone down at the bus, so Callum’s definitely going to be late. I never imagined him as an oversleeper. He usually beats me to class, and he’s always on time for our morning strength and conditioning training. I guess I just got the feeling that being on time was part of his personality. But he sure was sleeping fucking hard .

Maybe he did get drunk last night.

Then again, I’m not one to talk. His coping mechanisms are probably healthier than mine.

Not that I have any regrets.

I needed that last night. I might not have been surprised by our loss, but I was still pissed off after. Mostly at myself. So I left and directed that rage at someone else.

When that man touched me to check for wires, my skin crawled. When he told me about his very lucrative business with the illegal kind of porn he runs on the dark web that he thought I wanted to get in on too, bile rose in my throat. Every time he laughed about the pain and fear he’s inflicted, I imagined making him choke on his own cock after I cut it off.

But when my knife sliced through layers of skin and muscle and organ tissue?

Fuck . Everything was right with the world.

Lacey always excels at finding the most secluded spots for me to conduct my…work. I’m grateful for it beyond the obvious. It gives me the time I crave to revel in the silence. Just like with my ritual of skating alone before practice or a pre-game warm-up when I can manage, that silence after the chaos and the violence of a kill is just as precious to me.

After my first three kills when I was seventeen, I realized taking life didn’t affect me like I knew it’s supposed to.

I felt no guilt or shame or remorse.

I liked it.

Lacey believes it’s just the doling out of justice that I seek, of righting wrongs, being a wielder of karma. Taking vengeance into my own hands for those who can’t. And, sure, that’s certainly part of it. But there’s more to it that I’ll never admit to her.

I don’t like the idea of taking an innocent life, and I have no intentions of doing so. Killing vile, perverted scumbags keeps my beast satiated. Mostly.

After the beast got what it wanted, I cleaned myself and my knife in the water, disposed of my shirt, and put on the clean one I had stashed in my bag before I headed back to the hotel. When I found Callum fast asleep and that bag of Funyuns on my bed, it felt like a peace offering. I felt like shit for treating him the way I had earlier that day.

He confuses the hell out of me.

Even more so after that look he gave me when he first woke up.

Does he really have a good feeling about the game tonight?

Or is he just trying to get my hopes up only to smash them later out of revenge?

When we come out of the tunnel at Massachusetts’s arena, Coach is already on the ice, talking to someone who’s standing on the other side of the wall in front of the bench. The stranger is in street clothes—jeans and a Monarchs hoodie. His cheeks are flushed, his blonde hair shining beneath the stadium lights.

“Thanks for showing up, ladies,” Coach says like he didn’t arrive on the bus with us.

“Eric?”

I turn toward Callum who’s beaming at this new guy. He pushes his way past Nate and Brooks, and he and… Eric , apparently…embrace in a tight hug, Callum slapping him on the back with his glove.

Easy, beast.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “You know him?”

Callum steps back and peers over his shoulder at me like he can’t be bothered to give me his full attention. “He was on the junior hockey team at our high school. We played a year together before I was moved up to varsity.”

“Oh, right.” Looking back at Eric, now I recognize him. “You took my spot after I graduated.”

“That’s right,” Eric says, and he better hope that smug tone is all in my head.

“So, what are you doing here?” Callum asks him.

My jaw clenches at the smile still on his face, so big like he can’t fucking control it.

Eric reaches up to lift the shoulders of his hoodie, drawing attention to the black and orange. “Been thinking of transferring to Lynwood.”

“And Vaughn here will be taking someone’s spot if they can’t get their shit together today.” Coach’s eyes move from me to Callum and back again.

At least Callum has the decency to finally wipe that smile off his face.

“Now get out there and warm up,” Coach barks.

We do, all piling onto the ice in a blur of white and orange, our away colors. We skate a few laps around the rink until the assistant coach throws out pucks. They go bouncing or sliding across the ice, and I pick one up with my blade before hurling it into the nearest goal.

Another puck comes whizzing straight toward me, dead on, and before it hits my stick, I’m hitting it first, smacking it right into the net too with a slap shot.

When I look up, the first thing my eyes land on is Callum standing at the blue line, wearing a grin that I swear could stop my heart mid-fucking-beat.

The gleam in his eyes shines bright beneath the arena lights.

Alright. Let’s fucking do this.

Intercepting a pass between a couple of our other guys, I scoop up the puck and smack it in Callum’s direction as I take off, my blades carving the ice. Callum mirrors me, and we skate parallel down the rink, passing the puck back and forth around our teammates and through their legs.

Whatever tether had been connecting us before—the one that had become weak and frayed over the past few weeks, the one I was sure had already snapped—has been remade. Rethreaded with tight knots, stronger than spider silk.

On the other side of the rink, Callum sinks the puck right past Fitz into the back of the net.

He skates around the goal and comes to a stop in front of me, snowing my skates. I can’t even be mad about it with the smile stretching his face.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Coach’s voice booms through the arena. He skates over to us while everyone else on the ice has stilled, their focus on us. “Decided to finally pull something out of your asses today?”

“Sorry, Coach,” Callum says, still grinning. “Guess I’m finally awake.”

“Those pads aren’t meant to be used as pillows, Hayes.”

Callum bites his lip, probably to keep himself from laughing, but my gaze lingers on it. “Yes, sir.”

“Now do that again.” Coach blows his whistle, though it’s unnecessary since everyone’s eyes are already on us. “Everyone, get the puck away from Hayes and Wakefield!”

Everyone?

We just got our mojo back, and he’s throwing us straight into the lion’s den.

However, once we take off again, we’re practically unstoppable. They can hardly catch us, let alone sweep the puck out from under us. Nate gets a hold of it once, but Callum’s back in possession seconds later.

We’re not just playing better than we have in weeks. We’re playing better than we have ever .

I can’t explain the change, but I’m not going to curse it by questioning it.

I don’t know where or how Callum managed to find hope, but I’m going to trust it.

I’m going to trust him .

There are less than ten minutes left in the third period, and we’re up two to one. We’ve been playing our fucking hearts out. I’ve collected half as many penalties but twice as many bruises. It’s still far too early to start celebrating.

As soon as our third-line center clears the puck, he’s flying toward the bench. The moment he’s at the gate, Brooks is barreling over the wall and tearing off across the ice toward the other team’s defensive zone where our guys are applying pressure. He’s there just as Massachusetts takes control, and he steals possession back just as quickly.

My leg is bouncing with adrenaline and the urge to get back out there.

Brooks sweeps into the corner where he’s crunched into the boards and goes down.

I feel just as defensive and bloodthirsty when it comes to attacks on our guys as I was last night, but I’m at least able to hold back tonight. I’m not trying to spend most of the game in the penalty box or get benched before this thing is over.

Not when we have a real chance.

Brooks is up quickly, returning to the fray in front of the crease. He picks up a pass and makes a shot, but it’s blocked by their goalie. The puck bounces off his pads before Massachusetts’s forward line takes it back across center ice.

There’s a battle along the boards before the other team gets a shot in.

Fitz stops it with his glove and covers it, and the ref’s whistle blows.

“Wakefield!” Coach calls.

Fucking finally.

Me and my line climb over the wall as the second comes in the gate. I skate out into the circle for the face-off. The puck drops, and I slap it right to Callum’s tape. He’s too quick for the other team, taking it back into Massachusetts’s zone. Their guys are on him, but he slaps the puck between them, and it ricochets off the corners.

I scoop it up along the boards and pass it to Nate. He passes it back.

Callum is circling around the slot, and I feel a tug on that tether as it goes taut. I send a pass that glides right along that line.

The puck hits Callum’s stick with a crack, and he sinks it in with a wrist shot. It flies over the goalie’s shoulder and into the back of the net.

With less than three minutes left, Callum most likely just secured our first win of the season.

He raises his stick in the air. His brilliant smile is the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen.

We all converge on him as the buzzer blares.

As he’s surrounded by his teammates for victory hugs and congratulatory slaps on the back and helmet, his eyes are only on me.

And mine are only on him.