Chapter 2

Back in my dorm that night, I opened my laptop and logged into the IceTyrant account.

My inbox had been bombed by Nathan.

"Master, you there?"

"Master, I used your tactics at practice today and it was insane! How'd you even spot that I was half a second slow on my turns?"

"Master, talk to me. I ditched the whole team's plans just to sit at my computer and wait for you."

Looking at his messages, all wagging tail like a big dog, I thought back to how he'd been all afternoon, eyes on nothing but the puck.

The guy wasn't actually mean-hearted. He was just completely oblivious to how people worked.

I typed out a line.

"I watched your old game tapes. Everyone's just recklessly aggressive, dropping the gloves at the drop of a hat, all chasing the spotlight, and you play like a bunch of strangers. It doesn't matter how good the tactics are if the captain doesn't give a damn about his own teammates and lets bullying slide right under his nose."

He fired back a shocked reaction sticker in a heartbeat.

I thought he'd argue, but instead he wrote,

"Damn... you've got a point, Master. I wanted every single one of them to get stronger so badly that I really never thought about balance. I'll fix it first thing tomorrow! Can you break down the tactical details for me some more?"

Faced with this pure-hearted fanatic who only ever bowed to skill, most of my anger from the day somehow melted away.

I rolled my eyes and was about to walk him through the power points of a backhand flick when my hand slipped and hit the sticker beside it.

A "Peppa Pig bawling her eyes out" sticker went through.

My stomach dropped.

It was a sticker I used all the time on my main account, totally at odds with the cold, ruthless tactics-genius image of IceTyrant.

The other end went silent for a full minute.

"Master... did you get hacked?"

I quickly hit unsend.

"My cat stepped on it."

"So even a legend like you keeps a cat! That's adorable! I'm buying you the best cat treats money can buy and shipping them tomorrow!"

I stared at the screen, speechless.

Nathan's brain really did not work like a normal person's.

The next afternoon a cold front rolled in, and the rink was like an icebox.

Hands shaking, I dragged dozens of heavy bags of gear toward the storage room.

Normally the backup guys handled the heavy lifting, but today Tiffany had called them all off to help set up some welcome party, leaving me alone at the rink to do the grunt work.

On the third bag, my fingers stiff with cold, my feet slipped and I went down hard, bag and all.

My palm was scraped raw, oozing bright red blood.

I was gritting my teeth to push myself up when a pair of black skates suddenly appeared in front of me.

Nathan had come back at some point.

He looked at me, his face frighteningly dark.

My chest tightened. Great, here comes another lecture about being in the way.

"What did you do to your hands? They look like two rotten carrots."

His tone was harsh as anything, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand up to his eyes.

I instinctively tried to pull it back. "It's fine, I just fell..."

"Fine my ass! You get tetanus and the team's the one paying to fix you up!"

He let go of me in irritation, turned and marched to the locker room, tore the place apart until he dug out an unpackaged first-aid kit, and dumped it straight into my arms.

"Put a bandage on it yourself. And don't get blood on my jersey."

Then, to my surprise, he bent down, hoisted the gear bag I couldn't budge with one hand, and tossed it into the storage room like it was nothing.

I froze where I stood, staring at his broad back.

This guy... maybe he wasn't so unbearable after all.