Chapter 2

Luca Moretti   pov

Bennett is practically buzzing with happiness. He has a stick tucked under one arm, and his fangs are so visible that I'm shocked his lips haven't split apart. He tries to keep within arm's length of Carter while wearing a rather disoriented appearance. I can't recall ever seeing someone look that foolish.

We haven't even touched the ice yet, but I've already seen him examine himself in the glass twice. Right now, he's in front of the board, swaying on his skates to prevent himself from bouncing.

He sighs as though he's having the rapture when he's not staring at himself. He closes his eyes and inhales the chill. A full, flawless grin is formed by the curve of full, flawless lips. Avoid falling for that. Don't be fooled by that attractive face. He's not that great.

Bennett is the first player over the board when Coach signals. I come in second. Before the majority of the guys had time to put their skates on ice, he completes two full circles. It flows like water. Yes, and without a hitch. A force that has subdued gravity and captured the sun. It irritates me. The team members observe him with a faint murmur of adoration. That irritates me much more. In the league, his speed is famous. I understand that.

I find it incomprehensible that no one else recognises him as a show pony. A whole flake devoid of any substance. I'll give him credit for having a tremendous first season, but ever then, his play has declined. Even if it's small, the figures show it. We traded decent guys for him, though. trustworthy players. players who had shown their value and given their all for this team.

And for what purpose? A potential player? Please, bitch. Potential just indicates that you haven't finished it yet. It's just absurd. Why everyone is so excited about Bennett joining the team is beyond me. Furthermore, I have no idea why he is so excited to be here. The Wranglers are a more superior squad.

That is something that cannot be avoided. If I were to make this exchange, I would be furious. I would need to be sedated and strapped down. I would need a horse tranquillizer, at the very least, to be half as relaxed about life as this idiot appears to be. In order to give Bennett a sense of the squad, I believe the coach has us warm up and execute a few drills before we skate different line combinations. Considering that we have our first in-season game in two days, it's a rather light session. Rest is a weapon, according to one of the Bears' coaching philosophies.

Unless instructed otherwise, in-season practice is half speed, half strength. In the lead-up to our exhibition games, our coaches are more than willing to train us to the point of near-death vomiting; nevertheless, once the season begins, we concentrate on preserving energy for games and avoiding injuries as much as possible. Don't get me wrong, it's still a procedure that would likely land the typical person in the hospital. We're just taking it easy since we're at the top of our game.

Santos, the head coach, shouts, "Bennett, I said half-speed." Like the upbeat nice kid he wants everyone to think he is, Bennett looks back and raises his chin to indicate that he heard him.

He skates in a wide arc that ends at the bench, stopping abruptly to spray ice and give Coach a big, arrogant smile. He shrugs and replies, "Coach, that was me at half-speed." Coach chuckles and shakes his head as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. The rest of the crew agrees. The thin layer of patience that I have worked so hard to build over the years starts to come apart. A three-on-three is called by the coach.

Cole, myself, and rookie defenseman Pejic are up against Carter, Bennett, and Hollis. If Cole were playing at his best, the match would be quite equal.

He recently underwent an ACL repair, which has made him more cautious than before. Bennett and Carter glide into our end zone after passing the puck back and forth.

They easily sneak by Pejic and score twice before we have a chance to put up a strong defence. Bennett exclaims, "Sweet!" and puts his arm around Carter's shoulder. Carter looks down at him like a pleased daddy bear and gives him a slap on the back. The coach seems quite identical on the bench with his arms folded over his clipboard.

I grab the puck from Carter and say, "Cole, look alive." I break over the blue line. After making a furious run at Cole, Hollis is nowhere to be seen. There's an open lane of white in front of me on the ice. My legs and arms are working, and my breathing is rapid and forceful. Half-speed? Fuck that crap. As we battle for the puck, Bennett suddenly appears and touches my stick. He wins, but I check him before he can wrist it to Carter. difficult. Half-power?

And screw that garbage. With a bang, he hits the ice, knocking himself unconscious. Stick is a few yards away from him, sprawled out. Slowly confused, limpid green eyes flicker at me. At his feet, I pause. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the Bears' great hope flat on his ass," I remark, chuckling gently as I turn away from Coach and the rest of the squad.

"You dick, the coach said half-strength." The corners of my mouth quirk. I'm not sure if it's a sneer or a smile. I extend my hand to assist him in standing up as I bend forward. This game may be played by two people. I say, "That was me at half-strength."

I draw away just before we make contact when he extends his hand to take mine. In front of me, his face changes. I can see his mouthpiece well as his upper lip curls into a scowl and there's an angry flash of jade.

You see? He's not as charming as he appears, I told you. Admittedly, I get a buzz when I see him like that, unattended, on his back with his legs spread wide. My blood is filled with adrenaline. My body becomes warmer as my heart beats more quickly and forcefully. I extend my hand once more, and this time I pull him up as our gloves knit together.

"Fix your face, Princess, or they'll all know you're just as much of a dick as I am," I say, leaning closer to Bennett as he regains his equilibrium after taking a quick look at the bench. Another flare is present.

A flash of anger that narrows his gaze. I adore it. I adore him in this state. And with such little work. Having him on the squad might not be all that horrible. I let go of his hand and run my glove over his face, lightly touching his cheekbones and nose to give him the slight bump he needs to go from irritation to rage.

It functions. He slaps my hand away. I push him. With his fist clenched around the neck of my jersey, he pushes me back more forcefully. I would have skidded backward if I hadn't known who he was. Unfortunately for him, I haven't fallen because his butter wouldn't melt in years, so I got ready.

"Aw, Princess, what's wrong? Too lovely to play? He pushes me once again. His face is not quite as attractive as it was a few minutes before; it is blotchy, red, and twisted. I shove him once more. This time, I use both hands because, well, why not? He will if I don't. The intention to attack and defend takes control, as does the energy and effort.

I become hotter. Everywhere you look, there's heat, the type that makes you feel excited. in my face. within my grasp. behind my eyes. It's difficult to tell who punches first, but all of a sudden we're both hurling powerful, uncontrollable blows that strike on chest pads and bounce off helmets. Carter and Cole are on us, pushing us apart with force while Coach yells and crosses the ice to reach us.

Bennett and I are drawn to one another like magnets, growling and snapping until they can separate us sufficiently. We cool down at different stations, according to the coach.

He maintains a close eye on us both, but based on the way he's staring at me, I can tell he will have a lot to say to me after practice. Oh no. Everyone on the squad is watching me.

Guys who should be my brothers are giving me slow, critical stares. After less than a minute of getting to know Bennett, they immediately know who the jerk in this situation is.

Good. "Talk to him, but be nice 'cause he's the most adorable babygirl in the whole wide world, so make sure he gets special babygirl treatment," is probably what Coach says to Carter in a hushed conversation before practice finishes. He tips his head in Bennett's direction as he speaks.

When he's finished, he barks, "Moretti." "Now, my office." Santos is a good coach. Equitable and reliable. I appreciate him even if I don't agree with all he does. He deserves it.

His verbosity is something I can't pretend to admire. He is so long winded, my goodness. Extremely wordy. Thankfully, I've got a lot of experience with him talking to me, so I just stand in front of his desk and let my thoughts wander.

I daydream for a bit, preparing a dinner that could be more complex than I have the supplies or skills to prepare, and then I mentally cross off the final tasks I need to complete before our first game.

Occasionally, I dart back into the discussion, glancing at my feet and moaning in a way that is close enough to an apology to satisfy him. "You hear me? Let that be the end of it now."

The coach points to me with a finger. "Yes, Coach!" I responded enthusiastically. The more I consider it, the more I think I could cook the creamy garlic-parmesan chicken that appeared on my feed this morning. What if I use milk and cheddar instead of cream and parmesan? How much of a difference would that actually make?

It is essentially the same thing. I walk slowly to the locker room and am happy to see that it is almost empty. Locker room chatter has traditionally been shown to push me beyond my stringent limit of how many people I can manage with grace. Fuck. As I exit the arena and make my way to my car, I notice a few reporters.

They shouldn't be down here, but they must have been at a press conference or something because they have lariats with press cards around their necks. I get that it's a necessary aspect of the work, but really, can you image spending the rest of your life in parking garages in the hopes of seeing a player?

I'm not passing judgement, but that doesn't seem like a fun time to me.

I pick up the speed while maintaining a straight gaze. "Moretti." A baritone, silky voice approaches me from behind. "Hold on." Jesus Christ, oh. No, please. Please don't tell me that Golden Boy wants to express his emotions and give it a hug. Naturally, he does since it's Bennett.

He wears a white puffer jacket that makes his complexion appear more tan than it actually is, and his light-brown hair with delicate blond accents is moist and pushed back from his face. His eyebrows are arched in lofty, optimistic arcs, and he has a hand in one pocket. The hope is what irritates me.

"What are you looking for?" I enquire. "I thought we might have a conversation.Get a beer or something, and attempt to defuse the situation. "And why would I want to do that?"

He is shocked. He is accustomed to people falling in love with him as soon as they see his charisma. His eyes enlarged. I can see tiny striations of moss and fern green spreading out against a golden-brown background up close. Instead of being green, his eyes are hazel. I overlooked that. He displays his palms to me. A move intended to calm me down, yet it has the opposite effect. "I'm not aware of what transpired on the ice back there. I'm not that person. "Really?" I twitch my lips.

"Unfortunately, I am." He blinks in outrage as his head snaps back. His lips form an asshole-like little, tight O. A gripping one. Just as I'm going to inform him, the media approach us. One is facing us with a recorder. "What are your thoughts on being traded to the Bears, Tyler?" "No." Bennett smiles with a thousand-watt smile.

"Those who are far more knowledgeable about strategy and management than I am made that decision. I'm only here to play hockey, is that right? Really? Additionally, I'm thrilled to be representing Montreal. Since I was a young child, the Bears have been my team.

This is a dream in the making for me.A dream come true? He must be stopped by someone. That's his agent. Before everyone in the city has to witness this garbage on the news, he must come down here and put a muzzle on this idiot. "Now, a lot has been said about the rivalry between the two of you," the reporter adds, looking so proud of himself that I'd wager you ten dollars I know what he's going to say next. Would you like to remark on that? Bingo.

It's there. Bennett never misses a beat. "I have a great deal of respect for Luca Moretti, as I have always stated. Our competition is unreal and has been greatly exaggerated throughout the years. It's just quotes that have been taken out of context and are being exploited as clickbait. The reporter turns to face me with his recorder.

"And what are your thoughts on the newest member of the Bears?" I talk directly into the recorder by lowering my head. "It fucking sucks fucking balls." I catch a glimpse of the second reporter setting up his camera out of the corner of my eye. I make a little turn and try to put on as big of a smile as I can.

With a pop, the flash's bulb goes out, temporarily blinding me. I unlock my car, get in, and drive away after thanking the reporters for their time. In less than two hours, the picture becomes news. TBS and TNT take it up when it is available online. They are obviously unable to utilise my quote due to my language, and it's no coincidence that they repeatedly replay Bennett's, cutting directly to the picture of us each time.

I wouldn't describe myself as artistically inclined. Even though I normally can't tell a masterpiece from my ass, I can tell this picture is good. It's excellent. The drama, the lighting, and the viewpoint are all striking. Because of my face and, well, my whole nature, I don't usually take excellent photos, but in this instance, I look pretty darn awesome.

I'm grinning, both of my eyes are open, and I'm staring directly into the camera. I don't appear aggressive or even somewhat irate. Well, hmm. Perhaps I ought to give Stacey a copy. It may be fun for her. Bennett doesn't have that kind of luck. His face is more contorted than it was just before he struck me on the ice. His nostrils are flared as he looks up at me, and his eyes are filled with venom, which is something that everyone is hardwired to recognise.

I can't think of anything that has made me happier in the previous five years, at the very least.