Page 70 of Almost Ravaged

Practice is winding down, from the look of things, with some of the players and staff still hanging around, chatting, while others head to the locker room or offices.

Once I’m looking out over the ice, it takes all of five seconds for my skin to prickle. For my stomach to twist with awareness. For my spine to straighten and for my breath to catch in my throat.

He’s already found me, his attention causing that string that connects us to tug more incessantly and with greater intensity.

How can such a strong sensation, such a predetermined destiny, never amount toanything? For years, we’ve been reduced to meaningless moments like this. We’re constantly aware of each other, and yet nothing ever comes of it.

I hate playing these games, existing in emotional limbo.

Yet I wait him out, refusing to look up too soon.

Instead, I take a swig of my water, then pretend to check my phone. When my body is practically vibrating with awareness, when I can no longer ignore the way he reaches into me, straight to my marrow, where all my secrets live, I look up.

He’s still on the ice, still working on drills, weaving and dodging toward an empty net.

To anyone else, he appears laser-focused.

But the second I zero in on him, he whips around and meets my gaze.

How he knows—how we both always know—defies logic and reason.

He’s attuned to me, even at a distance.

He watches me, his expression unreadable from here.

I offer a smile and a dorky little wave.

Eventually he goes back to the drill, and even as the rink clears out, he remains focused.

Only when a man calls out to him, a coach, I assume,does he finish up.

He skates backward, pointing his stick at me, like he does every time I attend a game. He keeps his focus fixed on me all the way to the bench.

I hold my breath the entire time he retreats.

Chapter twenty-five

Tytus

I’m soaked in sweat by the time Coach blows the whistle and calls us in from line drills.

Atty is across the rink, working with Swayshure, or Swayzee, as the team affectionately calls him. He’s a junior, left wing, and a team captain. He’ll undoubtedly have a say in how the lines are set up when the season begins.

Anxiety trickles through me any time my best friend pals around with guys on the team. Atty’s far more personable and charismatic than I am, but that’s not the problem. The issue is that if Coach discovers he has good chemistry with another D-man, he might choose not to pair the two of us up.

Atty and I share an aggressive playing style and complement each other well, but that doesn’t guarantee shit. We’ve played together for so long that the idea of partnering up with anyone else makes my stomach roil.

If my best friend felt the same, I’d bring it up to Coach Connors, but I’m not so sure, given the way Atty’s been making an effort to get to know the other guys.

Good for him.

To be determined for me.

I hit the boards harder than necessary, then drag my ass to the bench. Once I’ve tossed my helmet to the ground, I run a towel over my head.

When I’m finished, I check on Atty again. He’s still out there with Swayzee. My chest constricts, making breathing difficult, especially when Haas, a.k.a. the Kid, joins them as well.

Haas is a true freshman. Barely old enough to order a drink back home. He’s tall, lean, and wicked fast on the ice, which makes him a good candidate for one of the forward positions. He’s a walk-on player, and rumor has it, his dad’s a rich doctor who donates a ton of money to the local youth hockey program. With skills and connections like that, I’d be surprised if he didn’t make the second or third line.