Chapter eight

Travis

I swung my stick and the puck went sailing... right into Hunter's waiting stick. I gritted my teeth, annoyed at ho impressive he was, which made no sense.

It was more than clear why coach had brought him on as Neal's replacement. Hunter was fast, had a precision level that was rare on ice and could read me like a book. For the past two hours, we had been playing like we had been playing forever, and it was fucking beautiful.

With just one glance from him, one shift of his feet, or the way his body tensed, I knew what he wanted from me. I had heard about telepathy on ice, and while our team had always had good chemistry, Hunter and I's was on another level.

"Take the shot." Sammy called out at me.

I shifted my gaze to Hunter, waiting for his silent signal. He cocked his head, a clear red flag. Instead of listening to Sammy's signal, I continued pushing forward, closer and closer to the net. I could sense Hunter on my heels, and a second later, he had sailed past me.

I knew even before he moved his hockey stick to his left hand what he wanted.

I took the shot just as one of the defencemen crashed into me, my body bouncing against the boards, but it was too late for the opposing mini team.

He caught it perfectly like he had been doing for the whole practice session, and before they could even realize he had the puck, he aimed. A second later, the scoreboard flashed red.

Goal.

"Damn it, I'm done." Sammy groaned, ripping his helmet off. "You two are doing some weird telepathy shit and I can't deal. Nope, I'm leaving."

"What? Why?" I asked, confused.

"Uh, captain." He stared at me like it was obvious. "You might not have noticed but practice time ended about an hour ago. And we're beat."

I hadn't even noticed the time flying past. It had been a while since I had had this much fun playing, and I was hesitant to put an end to it. I began to reach for my helmet, but Hunter's voice stopped me.

"Why don't the rest of you go ahead," he said. "We're just gonna stick around and perfect a few passes."

Our goalie snorted. "Like there's anything left to perfect. Come on, guys, let's get out of here."

I waited till the last of our teammates had filed off the ice before I turned to face Hunter. He was staring at me with a smirk that promised trouble.

"First to get the puck into the net ten times wins."

"Wins what?" I asked suspiciously. Despite how today's practice had gone and our obvious chemistry on the ice, we weren't friends. I wasn't about to hand him an open check.

He shrugged. "Come on Moore, live on the edge a little. Winners choice."

I scoffed. "Like that's going to happen."

"Fine, fine." He chuckled. "Who knew you were such a buzz kill. How about winner gets one question and loser has to answer."

Suspicion curled up within me. "What do you want to know so badly?"

He threw his head back, laughing. "Aren't you at least going to pretend that you can win this?"

I sputtered, "I'm indulging you."

The smile he flashed me was cocky and surprisingly it didn't make me angry. Instead, I found myself biting back an answering smile. What the hell?

"So, we have a deal. One question, whenever I choose. And loser has to answer."

I paused, mind racing. There was no doubt in my mind that he wanted to know about the scars on the inside of my wrist, but I wasn't willing to talk about them. I opened my mouth to end this, but instead, I found myself saying.

"Deal."

Almost two hours later, I regretted that decision. Sweat poured down my back and face, and pooled in every crevice of my body as I pushed my body past the breaking point. We had both slowed down to almost a crawl about half an hour ago, and now it was just pure spite driving us.

I knew my body was going to regret this come tomorrow, but the thought of tapping out when I was this close to winning was unacceptable.

Hunter and I were tied evenly at 9-9. The next goal was going to be the winning one.

"Exhausted, Moore?"

"Nope." I wheezed. "You?"

"Not even close." He panted. "I could run a marathon right now."

I couldn't help the laugh that escaped my mouth. Using my last bit of energy, I pushed forward, literally dragging my skates over the ice. Hunter had the puck and had been slowly inching toward the net during the conversation. The sly bastard.

Just as he made to take the shot, I intercepted it, stealing the puck and spinning around. As I hit the slapshot, my legs gave out under me and I collapsed, breathing hard.

"Fuck." Hunter growled.

I peeked over to see that my shot had made it into the net. I laughed with exhilaration, one last surge of adrenaline from the win coursing through me. "Now I wish I had asked for something crazy, like making you dye your hair or get a tattoo."

"You wish." He dropped down beside me.

Too close.

I tensed for a moment, then relaxed. He was probably just too tired to move, so I said nothing. But there was an awareness at the back of my mind that if I turned my head, my face would be barely an inch from his. I didn't know why that mattered, but the thought refused to leave my head.

"I don't know if_"

Hunter was cut off by the booming sound of coach's voice. "What are you two still doing here? Go home, right now. It's almost nine pm for God's sake."

9pm?

My stomach dropped. Every trace of adrenaline vanished and I felt the blood drain from my face.

No.

No, no, no.

“We're late for dinner."

"So?" Hunter shot me a dry look. "It's just dinner. We can skip it."

To him, it was just a family dinner. He didn't understand, and I hoped he never would. I rose to my feet, body protesting the move and began to hobble off the ice.

"What the hell?" He called out, but I didn't stop.

For one second, I had forgotten that I was Michael Moore's son and allowed myself to enjoy being on the ice. I had made that mistake once, several years ago. I couldn't afford to make it again.