Tonight is the first game since I brought Oakley to my parents’ house and it’s also the first game we’re losing at the start of the final period. And I can’t help but think it has everything to do with the fact that we’ve truly gone and fucked up this superstition beyond repair because we had sex.
Real, mind-blowing sex outside the limits of our superstition.
The worst part is our falling behind on the ice has nothing to do with the way we’ve been playing as a team. This might actually be the tightest game we’ve played as a whole all season. It’s more like every time we score or catch some kind of lucky break, there’s Wynnfield coming right back with one for themselves. Which is frustrating as hell on its own, but even more so when I have to believe this is partly our fault.
“What’re you thinking right now?” Oak asks, skating up to my side as we make our way to center ice for the third period faceoff.
“That we can’t lose this game,” I mutter, my gaze colliding with his. But what I don’t say is that even if we lose—and even if it is because of us—I don’t regret the other night. Not by a long shot.
I just hope he can say the same, if it comes to that.
Oakley nods in understanding, but keeps silent as he moves into position on the opposite side of the circle.
Once the official drops the puck and the game is back in motion, every guy—teammate and opponent—slides into the zone with one singular task on their mind.
Get the puck in the net.
And by some streak of luck, we manage to with three minutes left in the game. All thanks to Oakley’s keen eye, spotting I was open and allotting me the chance to score. Now with the goal tying us up at three apiece, I’m just grateful we’ve got a chance to take this to overtime at the very least.
Now the puck’s live again, and we’re about to do a change on the fly when Oakley skates up behind me, a massive smile screaming of pride and respect plastered on his face. “Nice shot, de Haas.”
I’m aiming a returning grin at him, seconds away from thanking him for the assist, but I don’t get the chance, thanks to one of the jackass defensemen, Jake Carter, from Wynnfield. Carter slams into me out of nowhere, the unexpected blow knocking me off my feet and sending me barreling straight into the boards headfirst.
It takes a second for me to catch my breath, the angle of the hit knocking the wind out of me. From the way my neck hurts, I can already tell I’ll have major whiplash. Probably a killer headache for the next couple days too.
The way players from both teams surround me lets me know the play has been stopped—a card probably pulled on Carter for an illegal hit—to check me for injury.
Oakley’s in front of me a second later, arm outstretched to help to my feet. I reach for it, but I never get the chance to grab a hold because Oakley’s shoved away by the defenseman who rammed into me.
“What the hell, man?” Oakley rights himself, a scowl marring his face as he glares at the asshole.
But this doucheface has no interest in talking, instead shoving Oakley again—crushing him against the glass too—before coming after me. His arm slams down over my throat, holding me against the boards that way. And when he leans in, his facemask colliding with mine, I recognize him as one of the many players I got handsy with last season after running my mouth for a little too long.
My damn mouth, always getting me in trouble.
“Not such a tough guy with your back against the boards, are you, de Haas?”
“Bite me, Carter,” I snarl, teeth bared.
“Not really my kink. How ‘bout I deck you instead?”
He’s seething now as he jams me harder against the boards, the forearm locked over my throat grinding down against my Adam’s apple painfully.
I can barely breathe, let alone speak, when Oakley grabs him out of nowhere just as he goes to rip my helmet from my head—probably to throw his fist into my face.
“Get off him,” he snaps, shoving the defenseman away from me.
But it only makes the D-man even more pissed off.
He’s after Oakley now, meanwhile pandemonium breaks out on the ice, all the players and officials doing their best to call off Carter’s attack. It’s no use though, because Carter is an animal on the hunt for blood. Except as he rips Oakley’s helmet from his head and raises his fist, I realize it’s no longer my blood he wants.
He lands a blow on Oakley’s cheekbone before bashing him back against the glass. And when I watch him crumple beneath the hold Carter has on his shoulder—his bad fucking shoulder—I see red.
And something inside me snaps.
The feral, carnal side of myself breaks free as I wrap my arms around Carter’s waist, yanking him away from Oakley. I’m ready to give him a taste of his own medicine, the rage inside me about to be unleashed.
He can come after me all he wants if he’s got a beef needing to be settled, but leave my teammates out of it. No one else needs to be injured because of me. Not again.
So if a fight with me is what he wants, a fight he’s gonna fucking get.
Except I don’t even have the chance to do a damn thing, because Oakley’s right there to put an end to this squabble once and for all.
“Hey, stop. He’s not worth it.” His palm presses against my chest pads as two Wynnfield players work to separate me and Carter. But no amount of space or holding back can stop me from wanting to smash in this doucheknuckle’s face.
And that’s all I want right now, because how fucking dare he.
But Oakley presses fractionally harder.
“Quinn, he’s not worth it,” he says again, his tone soft yet firm.
The blood boiling in my veins demands release, but as I lean into Oakley’s touch—even if I can’t directly feel it through the pads and uniform—my rage tamps down. Cooling to a low simmer, and eventually, it’s enough to remove my eyes from Carter to give Oakley my full attention.
A tiny amount of blood leaks from the cut below his eye, and I can tell from the way he’s positioned, with his arm held up awkwardly toward his chest, this jackass somehow fucked with Oak’s shoulder. It pisses me off more.
But still, Oakley’s hand and imploring gaze are enough to ground me in the moment, keeping my rage from getting the better of me.
“You’re right,” I snarl, baring my teeth at Carter. “He’s not.”
And then I do something I’ve never done before during a confrontation on the ice.
I turn around, and I skate away.
I’m honestly surprised I was allowed to play the remaining few minutes, but since Carter was the one to clearly incite the violence instead of me, he was the only one tossed in the sin bin. Which was a weird experience for me, all things considered.
Things turn in our favor after the brawl on the ice, and thanks to the power play for the remaining time of the game, we pull a W out from all the chaos. Rossi, McGowan, and I are able to work together with Wynnfield down a man, sneaking a goal in with about thirty seconds left.
My third goal of the night, giving me a hat trick to end the game along with the win.
But the celebrations are cut short in the locker room when the team trainer pulls Oakley into a separate room to take a look at his shoulder before he even has the chance to shower.
Coach benched him the rest of the game after the incident with Carter, wanting to have it looked at before the game ended. But Oakley wasn’t having it and said it could wait until the clock zeroed out, much to Coach’s and my displeasure.
However, the way he was wincing at the slightest movement only proves pulling him off the ice was the right call.
Some of the guys are still milling about, but more than half the team has long since showered and gone home. I’m about ready to leave too, when Oakley appears at his stall, tossing his pads into the opening before stripping down and wrapping a towel around his waist.
The skin on his back where his shoulder blade protrudes is red and inflamed, probably due to the trainer’s exam, but otherwise he seems to be moving it better than he was on the ice. But the butterfly bandage on his face to help close the cut on his cheek almost sends me over the edge into another ragey downward spiral.
My fingers twitch with both anger and compassion. With the urge to brush my thumb across Oakley’s cheek, but to also bash Carter’s skull in for daring to touch him.
In the end, I do neither, balling my fists and keeping them at my sides as I continue to give Oakley a once-over from across the room.
“I can feel you staring at me,” he murmurs before shifting his focus to me.
There are so many things I could say, so many things I want to ask, but I know this isn’t the time or place. So instead, I settle for the one piece of information I need right now.
“Are you okay?”
He gives me a tiny smile, but it quickly turns into a wince when he goes to hang his pads. “Yeah, I think it’s just sore. But the trainer’s confident it’s not another break or tear or anything serious. Just a tweak. Some ice and rest for a couple days should make me good as new.”
Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Okay,” is all I can say as guilt sweeps through me.
After all, if it wasn’t for my shit-talking these past few years, Carter wouldn’t have come after me, let alone bring Oakley into the mix. Fuck, if it weren’t for me, Oakley wouldn’t have been injured in the game against Waylon last season either.
As if reading my mind, Oakley cuts through my thoughts. “It’s not on you.”
It sure as hell feels like it is.
“Okay,” I say again, because I don’t have it in me to argue with him. All I really want is to crawl into bed and forget this day happened. Alone, because I can’t handle any company tonight. “Just take care of it. Please.”
He nods. “Of course.”
I can’t stay in here without making it completely obvious to the few guys still milling about that I’m hanging around for him. Which would probably set off some alarms in their heads, therefore going against the stupid fucking no one can know rule I’ve grown to loathe.
So I grab my bag and haul it over my shoulder to head home for the night.
I’m about to exit through the back door of the locker room when my name is called out from behind me.
“Quinn.”
I turn to find Oakley watching me with that penetrating gaze of his. The one that makes my skin tingle with pinpricks whenever I feel it aimed at me.
“Yeah?”
He licks his lips, a small smile forming on them before he says four words I never thought I’d hear out of his mouth. “I’m proud of you.”
From the way he says it, I know he doesn’t mean for scoring the game-winning goal, keeping our winning streak—and the superstition—alive. It’s because I did something I’ve never done before.
I walked away from a fight.
My heart ratchets in my chest, the damn thing pounding against my ribs a little harder at his approval. It’s something I’d never thought I’d get from him, and now knowing how it feels to earn it, there’s nothing else I want.
I want to keep making him proud. Always.
My lips lift at the corner as I smile at him. “I’m proud of me too.”
