Page 10

Chapter Eight

I lace my skates tighter than usual, like maybe cutting off the blood flow will distract me from the chaos in my head. But all it does is piss me off more.

"Move your ass, Banks," Coach barks, blowing the whistle as we fly into another drill. I push off the line, blades cutting into the ice, but my head’s not in it. It’s still in the woods—with her.

Avery fucking Castle. God, I hate her. I hate the way she talks back. I hate the way she gets under my skin. I hate the way her mouth tastes like sin and salvation and some version of heaven I shouldn't be allowed near.

But that kiss? Goddamn .

That kiss damn near brought me to my knees.

I might have dipped my fingers in her and relished in the way my name sounded on her lips, but it didn't touch the way her lips felt against mine. That kiss did more damage than anything else because it wasn’t just heat, it was something deeper.

It was a line we should have never crossed but barreled straight through.

"Keep your goddamn stick on the ice!" Coach snaps.

I slam the puck off the boards harder than necessary, skating wide and fast before swinging around and slicing down center ice. My lungs burn and my thighs scream, but it’s not enough to clear her from my head.

Not the sound she exhaled into my mouth or the way her walls clenched around my fingers like she wanted to push me away and pull me closer. And definitely not the look in her eyes when she came.

That wasn’t fear or hate—that was desire.

"Sebastian!" Coach shouts. "Focus or get the fuck off my ice."

I pivot fast, grinding to a stop near the bench, and shoot him a glare. "Got it."

But I don’t have it because everything is upside down. Callan is still in the hospital. Klein is sniffing around like a bloodhound with something to prove. And now I’ve got the girl I loathe imprinted on my goddamn lips.

The puck drops again and I throw myself into the play, jostling shoulders and slashing angles, pretending every player in front of me is a ghost I need to bury.

Because if I slow down, even for a second, I know she'll crawl back in.

Her wild eyes and open mouth saying she hates me while pulling me closer.

By the time practice ends, my legs are burning and my jaw aches from gritting through every drill. Back in the locker room, the guys are high on adrenaline, talking about last week's win.

Slade yanks off his jersey and flings it across the bench. "Tell me y'all saw that last-minute rebound. Almost as good as the one in last week's game. I should’ve gotten a fucking medal for that shit."

"You tripped over your own stick during the game," Aidric says, towel slung around his neck. "Puck just happened to bounce your way."

"Still scored, didn’t I?" Slade grins wide.

"We won because of Callan’s setup," Noah cuts in from the corner.

Slade goes quiet for a beat. "Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dude always knew how to line it up."

Everyone falls silent. The laughter stops and the clatter fades. Because Callan’s not here, and there’s a good chance he won’t be for a while.

"Coach says he might be out for the season," Slade finally says.

Aidric doesn’t look up from the bench across from me. "He’s not out; he’s benched. Big difference."

"Dude’s in a hospital bed, man." Noah sighs. "He can't even remember our last game."

"He’s not out," Aidric repeats, jaw tightening. "He’s coming back."

I yank off my pads and toss my jersey into the laundry bin, sinking onto the bench beside Aidric.

Noah grins from across the room, shifting the subject. "Did you all see that brunette at the gym yesterday? Tight ass, dark hair." He whistles low. "Thought I was gonna pull a muscle just watching her stretch."

A few of the guys snicker.

"She looked kinda like Avery," Noah continues, grinning wider. "Bet she’d be a good time."

Something sharp snaps through my chest, and my hands curl into fists before I can stop them.

"She’s not your type," I mutter, reaching for my water bottle.

"Avery?" Noah raises a brow. "Says who? My type is all women."

"Yeah, Avery. She’s a fucking headache," I snap, louder than I mean to. "Girl thinks she’s smarter than everyone else, always running her mouth like she’s got something worth saying."

Aidric glances at me, sharp-eyed.

Noah just grins. "Headaches can be fun. You just need the right kind of medicine." He cups his balls and gives them a little shake, drawing a round of laughter from everyone except Aidric and me.

My jaw tightens. "If you’re desperate enough to put your dick in a pussy that's already been claimed by our boy, be my guest."

Even if I did stick my tongue in a mouth that's already been claimed.

That kiss was so much deeper than anything else we did. It was twisted and raw and I felt it. Felt it more than I've ever felt anything in my life.

Fuck.

Noah just laughs, slapping a hand on my shoulder like I didn’t just damn near bite his head off. "Relax, Banks. Didn’t know you were so invested."

"I’m not," I spit out too quickly. But all I hear is the echo of Avery’s breath against my mouth and the low, broken way she said my name when I pinned her to that tree.

Yeah. I’m not fucking invested.

Aidric watches me from the corner of his eye, his mouth twitching like he knows something I don't.

"So," he finally says when it’s just the two of us. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You gonna keep pretending she doesn’t get under your skin, or should I start placing bets?"

I don’t answer because no matter what I say, it won’t change the fact that he’s right. She does get under my skin and I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do about it.

I finish getting dressed in silence while the rest of the room breaks into more shit talk about girls, game stats, and where they’re going tonight.

"Hey," Aidric calls, catching my eye before I reach the door. "We're hitting The Effing Bar for a drink. Darts, pizza—something low-key tonight."

I shake my head, slinging the strap of my bag over my shoulder. "I'm out. Heading to the gym."

Aidric raises a brow. "You never go to the gym after practice."

He's right, I don't. But lately I've been doing a lot of shit I don't usually do.

"Need to clear my head," I tell him.

He studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. "Right. Let me know if you want backup for whatever shit you’re spiraling about."

"I’m good."

But we both know that's a lie.

Fortunately, the gym is empty, so I don’t have to engage in small talk with the regulars. Unfortunately, that also means I’m stuck in my own fucking head again.

I pop in my ear buds and crank up the volume to "Empty" by Letdown.

I start with the bag, hitting until my knuckles go raw under the wrap, and it's still not enough. I lean over the bar of the weight bench, breath heaving.

She’s still there.

And worst of fucking all, he is, too.

What a perfect chaos cocktail—my old man who broke me and the girl who eventually will, both stuck in my damn head at the same time. Fuck them. They don't matter, but the fact that I'm still thinking about them pisses me off even more.

I load the bar with more weight than usual and drop onto the bench, my adrenaline already pushing into my bloodstream.

My chest rises and falls as I wrap my hands around the bar. Then I push.

One rep. Two. Three.

The strain feels good, like it was earned. Even if every press is an exorcism of her.

Not just her, but also the mask in the woods, the crash, the flash of fear in Avery’s eyes last night, seconds before she kissed me like she wanted to cut her own heart out.

I keep going until my arms shake and my shoulders burn. Then I drop the bar back onto the rack with a heavy clang and sit up, drenched in sweat.

I drag my forearm across my brow, wipe my hands on my shorts, and lean forward, elbows braced on my knees.

Without any thought behind it, I grab my phone, unlock it, and type out a message.

Me: Feel like playing detective tonight?

Three dots appear, then vanish before reappearing,

Little Lamb: On my way to visit my mom. Won’t be back until late.

I stare at the screen for a second too long. Of course she is . Of course she’s doing something pure like she’s not tangled up in everything dark I touch.

I toss my phone into my bag and head for the showers. Might as well go to the bar and drink myself into oblivion. Nothing else seems to be working.

I walk into the shower room and barely miss bumping shoulders with a guy going out. Seems he was the last one in here so I've got the place to myself.

Dropping my bag down on the bench, I turn the handle to full heat before stepping out of my shorts and getting under it.

With one hand braced against the wall, an image of her flashes in my mind. Not a recent one—it's her dancing in The Lord's Lair a couple weeks ago.

The way her hips swayed to the beat, head dropped back without a care in the world. She knew we were watching. She knew I was watching. And fuck if I didn't notice her.

My free hand trails down, finding my erection as I fight to quiet her voice in my head. The way she gasped and the way her lips tasted like fury and surrender.

She hates herself for what we did, I know she does, and I'm both satisfied and broken over that.

I work myself with short, sharp strokes that match every unspoken thought in my head. Her mouth, her fingers tangled in my hair, the way she bit my bottom lip like she was trying to hurt me, or mark me.

Her voice plays on a loop, telling me not to touch her. But I did it anyways and she fucking loved it—until she finished and came back to her senses.

I groan, biting down on the inside of my cheek as I pump faster. The tension coils deep in my gut. My hips move on instinct, chasing it—chasing her. The memory of her pinned under me against that tree. That filthy, desperate kiss.

I imagine her on her knees, lips swollen, eyes wide.

"Fuck, Avery!" I pant as my orgasm slams into me. I gasp as I come, fists clenched, forehead pressed to the tile and her name snared behind my teeth.

Guilt gnaws at my insides for getting off while thinking about my boy's girl, for touching her, and worse, for wanting to do it again.

Both hands hit the tiled wall and I drop my head down with my eyes closed and my mind tortured.

I'm going to wreck you, Avery Castle. But I can’t do that when you’re hiding from me.

She said she was busy tonight, as if that means anything. Like she gets to call the shots now. Since when?

I slam the shower handle off, steam curling around me as water slides down my skin. But it’s not the heat making my pulse pound—it’s the thought of her. Of what she’s doing, and who she’s with. Is she thinking about me? Is she still pissed?

It’s maddening.

This ache isn’t just desire—it’s something worse. A need to see her, to feel her, to be near enough to shatter that carefully constructed wall she’s hiding behind. Maybe if I just catch a glimpse of her face, the tension in my chest will ease.

A slow smile tugs at my mouth as I grab a towel and wipe my face.

I’m done waiting.

I’m coming for you, Little Lamb.