20

DAVIES

“Move out of the way, rookie.”

My voice sounded harsh, lacking any warmth. Stepping onto the thick rubber mats, my skates clomped heavy toward the ice.

Maya stood right in my path. She wore that same oversized blue jersey from yesterday. Her dark eyes searched my face, looking for the guy who held her hand across the campus quad. That guy was gone. Locked away in a dark box.

“Davies,” she spoke soft, taking a small step forward. “Are we going to talk about last night?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

Brushing past her shoulder, the cold air of the rink hit my face. My jaw clenched tight.

She grabbed my elbow. Her grip felt desperate, digging into the fabric of my black long-sleeve shirt. “Stop acting like this. You are giving me the cold shoulder because I set a boundary in your truck. It was a contract, right? We agreed on paper. You should not be acting this way.”

Turning around, my jaw set into a hard line. Looking down at her, the hurt in her eyes twisted my gut into knots. Pride kept my walls up high. She wanted to play games with legal documents. I could play that game better.

“Yes.” A bitter smirk formed on my lips. “That is totally true, Maya. Just a contract. Good PR. Do not worry about my attitude. I am just focused on the game.”

Yanking my arm free, my blades hit the fresh ice.

Skating away, raw anger pumped through my veins. It burned hot and fast. She drew the line. She shoved the contract in my face when things got real. Getting mad about it made zero sense. Business was business. My blood boiled anyway.

Coach Vance blew his silver whistle. “Drills! Let's go! Blue line to red line! Move your feet!”

Hitting the sprint, my legs pumped hard. Wind rushed past my helmet. The frozen air scorched my lungs. Hitting the blue line, my skates carved a sharp, aggressive turn. Snow sprayed high into the air.

“Pass the puck, Cap!” Julian yelled, tapping his fiberglass stick on the ice.

Ignoring him, my head stayed down. A defender stepped into my lane. Troy tried to box me out near the corner boards.

Dropping my shoulder, a brutal check sent Troy crashing into the plexiglass. The heavy plastic rattled loud. Troy crumpled to the ice, groaning and clutching his ribs.

“Hey!” Chad yelled, skating over fast. “Chill out, man! This is just practice!”

“Shut your mouth and play!” my voice boomed across the empty arena.

Coach Vance blew his whistle again, long and shrill. “Davies! Ease up! We have a tournament on Friday. Do not injure your own team.”

The warning went straight out the other ear. Grabbing the loose puck, my stick handled it with violent, jerky motions. Chad tried to steal it. He poked his stick near my skates, trying to trip my momentum.

Reacting on pure instinct, my elbows went up. A hard shove sent Chad flying backward. His skates flew up into the air. He hit the ice hard, sliding all the way into the metal goal post.

“What the fuck, Davies!” Julian shouted, shoving my chest with both gloved hands.

Shoving Julian back, my gloves balled into tight fists. “Do you want some too, bleach boy? Step up!”

Julian dropped his stick, ready to throw hands.

“Enough!” Coach Vance roared. His face turned a deep shade of purple. He marched across the ice, his boots slipping on the frozen surface. He pointed a thick finger at my face. “Get off my ice! Right now! You are playing like a wild animal. Hit the showers before I bench you for the whole season!”

“Gladly.”

Spitting a mouthful of cold water onto the ice, my skates carved a sharp turn toward the exit tunnel.

Kicking the heavy locker room door open, it slammed against the concrete wall with a loud bang. The room sat empty. The air smelled of stale sweat and mint soap.

Tossing my helmet across the room, the hard plastic bounced off the metal lockers. It clattered against the floor tiles.

“Stupid.” The word hissed through my teeth.

Ripping my thick gloves off, my bare hands gripped the edge of a wooden bench. My knuckles turned white. Taking deep breaths did nothing. Counting to ten did nothing. The image of Maya throwing that contract in my face played on a relentless loop inside my brain. I wanted to smash something.

Reaching up to wipe the sweat from my forehead, a sharp sting flared above my right eyebrow.

Looking down at my hand, a streak of crimson red stained my palm.

A stray stick must have caught me during the scuffle with Chad. A deep cut throbbed above my eye. Warm blood dripped down the side of my face, soaking into the white collar of my practice jersey.

Before reaching for a towel, the heavy door squeaked open.

Maya walked in. Her brown eyes widened in pure shock.

“You are bleeding,” she gasped, rushing forward without a second thought.

“Leave it,” my voice came out rough. Turning my back, a towel sitting on the bench seemed like a good distraction. I did not want her pity.

She ignored the warning. Stepping right into my personal space, her hands grabbed my chin. Her touch sent a wild jolt straight down to my toes. It felt like grabbing a live wire.

“Sit down,” she commanded, pointing to the bench.

“I am fine.”

“Sit down, Davies. Or I will kick your bad knee.”

A humorless chuckle left my throat. Dropping onto the wooden bench, my long legs sprawled out over the rubber floor mat. She stood between my knees. Her close proximity messed with my head. The sweet scent of her vanilla perfume battled the locker room stench, winning easily.

Grabbing a white first-aid kit from the wall, she snapped the plastic latches open. She pulled out a small alcohol wipe and a square bandage.

“This will sting,” she murmured, tearing the small foil packet.

“Do it.”

Her soft fingers tilted my face up. The harsh smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air. She pressed the wet pad against the open cut.

A sharp hiss escaped my teeth. My hands gripped the edges of the wooden bench tight to stop myself from grabbing her waist.

“Sorry,” she whispered, her face inches from mine.

Her dark eyes held genuine concern. That look killed me. She cared. She patched my wounds, defended me to the media, and laughed at my terrible jokes. We sat in a hospital room together. I wiped sweat off her dying mother's forehead. But she refused to cross the final line. She wanted a bodyguard, a bank, a fake boyfriend. Not a real one.

Keeping my gaze fixed on the cinderblock wall, avoiding her eyes became my main mission. Looking into her eyes always broke my defenses down.

“Why did you play so rough?” she asked, taping the bandage over the cut with gentle pressure. “You nearly broke Chad's spine out there.”

“Hockey is a rough game.”

“You were angry.” Her thumb brushed a stray drop of blood from my cheek. The soft caress burned my skin. “Because of what I said yesterday in the truck. Right?"