We were losing.
The crowd in Atlanta was vicious, their chants callous and loud as we fell behind by another point. It was four-to-one, our guys making a poor showing, and every single member of the team was wearing their emotions on their sleeves.
I stood behind the bench, phone in my pocket with absolutely no desire to film what was happening now. Coach McCabe stood beside me, arms folded over his chest, brows bent and lips in a firm line. He was pissed, but underneath it, I could see the worry winning out.
This wasn’t his team, and he knew it.
I heard him mutter something under his breath as the guys battled for the puck by where Will was defending our net. Carter managed to dig it free, and then he was skating down the ice, and Vince was flying out ahead of him, his focus on getting in position to score.
“Yes! Go, go, go!”
I didn’t realize the words had come from me until Coach glanced over at me with a smirk before his attention was back on the puck. I chewed my thumbnail as Coach called out instruction, trying to make a play happen. The puck went back and forth, around the back of the net, down to the middle of the ice before they were back in the offensive zone.
I held my breath the entire time, visualizing the puck going into the net.
“Come on, come on,” I chanted quietly.
The guys kept the puck moving, Carter making an attempt that was batted away by one of the opposing defensemen. Vince swooped in, and I saw with the rest of the crowd that he had a wide-open shot.
Before he could take it, an Atlanta player skated up quickly and pummeled him right in the face with a high stick.
The sickening crack of contact echoed through the rink, and Vince went down to the ice, curled into a fetal position and writhing in pain.
My heart stopped in my chest, ears ringing, everything happening in slow motion as Coach tried to keep the guys from clearing the bench. The Ospreys players who were already on the ice were taking off gloves and helmets, everyone ready to fight as Carter helped Vince stand.
Fists flew. Whistles blew repeatedly. The crowd roared, encouraging the fights.
But all I could do was stare at Vince.
He was bleeding, the skin between his nose and cheek bone split wide open. The sight of it made me woozy, and I planted a hand on the glass behind me to hold me steady.
“Vince!” I cried out, embarrassingly, but he didn’t seem fazed at all. He wiped his glove over his cheek, brow arching a bit when he saw the blood smeared, like he was impressed at the hit.
The referees broke up the various fights on the ice as Carter helped Vince skate back to the bench. He hopped the boards, and his eyes caught mine as the trainers immediately tugged him back toward the locker room.
I must have been wearing my concern like a neon vest, because he pulled to a stop right in front of me. He smirked, his face already swelling, the blood leaking down into his teeth.
“Hey, I’m good,” he said, pulling off a glove. He tapped my chin with his knuckles. “I’m good.”
I thought I nodded, thought the next breath came maybe a little bit easier. Then he was being toted back to the locker room, and I allowed myself one full inhale and exhale before following.
Vince
Maven was like a fretting mama bird, the way her brows pinched together as she held ice to my cheek after the game. I’d been cleared by the medical staff, no stitches needed — but it was too late. By that time, we’d already lost the game, not even scoring during the power play my injury provided us.
The loss stung worse than the cut that was currently numb, thanks to all the ice I’d had on it.
But as much as I was pissed over the game, I didn’t mind the current view — Maven in her sweatpants and a hoodie four-times too big for her, her hair wrapped in silk, eyes wide and concerned as she took in where my face was swollen and bruising.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you might be worried about me, Maven King.”
She flinched like I’d screamed, like she’d been lost in her own world. Then, she sighed, finally taking the ice off my face. She looked down at where she held the bag in her hands, trying to force a smile.
“More like concerned for the stick you broke.”
I smiled, too — mostly at the fact that it was so difficult for her to even joke like she wasn’t upset. I liked that thought, that she worried about me being okay.
It had been hell, pretending like everything was normal between us since the night in the gym. Behind hockey, there was nothing I thought more of than the moans I elicited from her on that bench, of her breasts spilling over that dress, of spreading her ass when I took her against that mirror.
My cock twitched at the memory, and I cleared my throat, sitting up a bit on the couch. We were in my suite, the lights low, television quietly filling the background with sports highlights — including the nasty high-sticking that split my skin tonight.
I’d made it this far without pushing her, letting her think what happened between us really was a one-night thing.
But my patience was wearing thin waiting for her to admit it was more.
“This might be the most I’ve ever seen something akin to distress on your face,” I said.
Maven let out a long sigh, tossing the ice on the coffee table beside her. She was on the ground next to the couch, balancing on her knees, and even sore as hell from the game and with a splitting headache from the hit, I still had a hard time not imagining what it would be like to stand and tower over her in that position, to stretch her throat and take both our minds off the game.
“How do you do it?” she asked, shaking her head. “I just watch you out there, and I’m groaning in pain. I mean, tonight, you got a stick to the face,” she said, gesturing to my injury. “But even on a regular night, you’re skating nonstop, getting thrown into the glass and the boards and onto the ice, taking elbows to the ribs…” Her eyes found mine. “It’s insane.”
“I told you,” I said with a shrug. “I’m the mayhem.”
She rolled her eyes on a smile, but it fell flat when her eyes skated over my cut. “Does it hurt?”
“A little,” I confessed. “But not too bad. This is pretty minor.”
“Minor?!”
“Nowhere near getting a couple teeth shattered,” I said, tapping my veneers with my pointer finger. “I’m sure Livia could tell you all about that.”
She grimaced, waving her hand. “I’ve heard enough of her gruesome stories to last a lifetime.” Maven watched me a moment before hesitantly reaching out, her cool fingertip gliding over the scar on my eyebrow. “And this?”
“Ah,” I said, mirroring her touch once she’d pulled back. I missed that touch as soon as it was gone, longing to reach out and snag her hand and hold it in my own. “I wish I had an epic hockey story to back this one up, but sadly, it happened off the ice.”
“Fall off the monkey bars?”
“Took a steel-toe boot to the face, actually.”
Maven’s jaw dropped. “What?!”
“Senior year of high school. Picked a fight with a guy who was three years older and about a hundred pounds heavier than me. All muscle.”
“Let me guess — over a girl?”
“You see right through me.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Why am I not surprised? Did he steal your date to prom or something?”
“He got drunk and decided to use one of our cheerleaders as a punching bag because she was his girlfriend at the time.”
The color drained from Maven’s face.
I shrugged. “I didn’t care if I was younger or smaller than he was. And I got a scar, but he got the lesson of a lifetime.”
“Did he press charges?”
“Against a high-schooler who kicked his ass?” I scoffed. “He was too embarrassed. Limped off like the coward he was and left my friend alone, which was all I wanted.”
I thought I saw a new level of respect in her eyes as she watched me like I was a brain bender puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out.
“What?” I asked when she didn’t say anything.
“It’s hard for me to picture.”
“Me beating someone’s ass? Come on, Mave, give me some credit. You see me do it nightly on the ice.”
I thought I saw her cheeks redden at the shortening of her name. I made a mental note to do it again.
“I just mean… I can’t picture you in that scenario. I pegged you for a more… posh school environment.”
“Believe me when I say, prep schools have more drama than public ones. When everyone has money, and everyone thinks money is power… it can feel like living in a fantasy world, one where the rules don’t apply.”
She huffed out a laugh at that, her eyes on the floor like she was thinking about her own past instead of mine now. I saw the ghosts dancing in her eyes.
“I will say, I think wearing my scar is easier than bearing the hidden ones you have to live with.”
She stilled, her next breath paused in her chest for a moment before she looked at me.
I wanted to ask her more about her ex, about the fucking bastard responsible for all the barbed-wire-lined walls she stood so shakingly behind. He’d hurt her. That much she’d admitted. But it was deeper than what she’d let on, little remnants of him sticking to her like shrapnel from an explosion.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated, the screen lighting up and breaking through the darkness in the room.
She swiped it off the table, sighing a bit before she glided her thumb over the screen and fired off a message.
“What’s up?”
“Reya is asking for an update.” She looked at me like she was ashamed of what she was going to say next. “Everyone wants to know you’re okay.”
I maneuvered myself to sit up straighter on the couch. “Well, let’s give the people what they want.”
“Really?”
I shrugged like it was no big deal, giving her a wink.
She cared about her job, about what people thought of her. Maybe if I showed her I cared about it, too, I could break out of the box she’d put me in in her mind. I thought about what Livia said when I’d called her, before she’d told me where Maven was on her date.
You’ve got a long road ahead of you to earn her trust.
Maven watched me for a moment before tapping on her screen until she had Instagram pulled up. She snapped a picture of me holding up two thumbs, and when she showed it to me, we both laughed at my swollen, bruised face, and the gnarly cut covered by bandages.
Once the photo was posted, Maven hopped up from the floor, wincing a bit from the position she’d been in for so long. My stomach immediately sank, knowing she was about to leave. It was the first night I’d spent with her without her teeth being bared, the first time I felt her peeking over those walls — even if just a little.
“We better get some sleep,” she said. “Do you need anything before I go?”
Stay.
The word reverberated in my mind, in my chest, but I snuffed it out like a candle flame.
“I mean, I could use a massage,” I said. “Or maybe a kiss — that would make it all better, right?”
“Vince,” she warned.
“Maven,” I echoed.
She looked so cozy in that moment, so relaxed, and yet I watched in slow-motion as she snapped every single guard back into place, a little line between her brows showing before she turned away.
“Make sure to keep icing,” she said, grabbing her bag off the table by the door.
“Careful. You’re doing that thing where it seems like you might care about me again.”
She turned, hanging a hand on her hip. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
There she is, I thought. My feisty girl.
I couldn’t resist the chance to play with her.
“Oh, by the way, I forgot to ask… how was your walk home from the gym last week?”
Maven’s face slackened as my grin grew.
“I know it was a bit… hot that night. Humid. Things can get a little… sticky.”
Her mouth popped open for just a moment before she scoffed and turned on her heel.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Did it rain?” I called behind her, arms resting on the back of the couch as I watched her go. “I heard things were a little wet.”
“Goodbye.”
I laughed long after she slammed the door.
