The Ice King’s Fake Fixer
I bit back a curse, my fists curling in frustration.
“Alright, wrap it up!” Coach Wallace barked from the bench. “Good hustle, boys. Hit the showers.”
In the locker room, the guys were already tossing around plans. “Yo, Rivers,” Tommy yelled, throwing a towel at me. “Alpha House is having a pre-playoff rager. Everyone’s going. You in?”
“Nah,” I said, not looking up as I unlaced my skates. My eyes were burning, a dull, pulsing ache throbbing right behind my forehead. “I’m good. Just tired.”