Page 14 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

TEN

TOBIAS

Now

P reseason or not, Chicago is always out for blood. Well, I'm playing this game likeI have something toprove,because I do.

I adjust my stance as the puck drops, crouching into the circle and locking eyes with their center. Vargas is quick, almost too quick, but not quicker than me. I flick my wrist and punch the puck backward toward Devan, who scoops it up like we've been doing this for years.

Because we have, or we had, but we don't miss a beat. Even now, after everything, after all the silent years and unspoken history between us, we still move like two halves of the same storm, perfectly synchronized despite the emotional distance.

I don't have to look to know where he's going.

I skate hard, digging my blades into the ice, slamming my shoulder into a defender trying to cut the lane as Devan fires it across the neutral zone.

The defender grunts at the impact but I'm already moving past him.

The puck's already on my stick before I finish my spin, the familiar weight settling against the tape like it belongs there.

I hear his voice call from behind, clear and commanding through the arena noise, "Left toe!

", and I don't hesitate, not even for a second.

I dump it to the corner with a sharp flick, peel wide around a Chicago defenseman who's scrambling to adjust, and loop behind the net in a clean arc.

Our right wing, Jamie, gets there a second too late, tangled in the boards with a Chicago player who's all elbows and aggression.

Chicago scoops it, but Devan's there again, gliding into the slot with brutal grace that reminds me of every practice, every game we ever played together.

He jabs his stick, intercepts clean, turns on a dime with that fluid motion I'd recognize anywhere, and feeds it back to me like we never missed a day.

I flick my wrist and send it top shelf, watching as the puck sails past the goalie's glove and hits the back of the net with a satisfying thwack.

The Goal horn blares through the arena, echoing off the rafters, and the crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

My lungs burn with each ragged breath. My heart's thudding too hard against my ribs, but not from exertion.

From him, Devan and the exhilaration and familiarity I feel for being exactly where I want to be for the first time in eight years.

This is what we should have been doing from the beginning, skating side by side, celebrating goals, building something together.

Okay, so there was a very low percentage of us being drafted to the same team, but a man could dream.

Especially back then, when everything seemed possible between us.

Devan skates over, taps my glove with his, eyes unreadable beneath his helmet visor.

We bump fists, but that's it, nothing more.

Not like before. Not like the grins and shoulder jostles and secret looks when we ruled the rink in college, when a goal meant his arm around my shoulders and whispered words only for me.

Nope, this interaction is cold and professional, calculated down to the seconds of contact.

It's his way of keeping me at arm’s length.

Safe. Distant. As if we're just teammates who happened to play together before.

We head back to the bench, jumping over the boards in perfect sync despite everything, and my legs feel like lead, weighed down by more than just physical exhaustion.

"Nice play," he mutters, sitting next to me, close enough that our pads touch but somehow miles away.

"Yeah," I say, but it feels hollow, empty words filling the space between us. "Just like old times."

I can feel his eyes on me, the weight of his gaze lingering for just a moment too long, but he doesn't entertain me with a response. Just turns away, focusing on the ice as if the answers to everything are frozen somewhere on that surface.

Between second and third period, the locker room buzzes with sweat, banter, and the sting of liniment.

The air is thick with the smell of equipment and the electric tension of a game we're winning but haven't secured yet.

I towel off my face, feeling the sting of salt in my eyes, and snag a water bottle from the cooler, trying to quiet the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with bruises or hits.

Devan is joking with Tor across the room, animated and loud, making exaggerated gestures that have several guys laughing.

Tor looks mildly amused as he glances over at Bast, who's sitting in his corner, intensely focused on taping his stick.

Our goalie only has eyes for Derrick though, who's sitting near him, watching his technique with rapt attention.

How no one else notices the way Bast's expression softens when Derrick speaks is beyond me.

Or maybe they don't care. Maybe this team is different.

Derrick hasn't been on the ice yet, still recovering, but I heard Coach Willis saying that his time is coming soon, that he's almost ready.

Ridley's sitting a few stalls down, lacing his skates with sharp focus, his fingers moving with practiced precision.

I move closer, wiping my hands on my Under Armor, and I wonder if this is the best time to bring this up.

After weeks of wondering, after watching Devan's face when Lia's name comes up, after seeing the way he looks at pictures of Chloe on his phone when he thinks no one's watching, curiosity has me thinking fuck it, it's now or never. "Hey. Can I ask you something?"

He looks up warily, his hands pausing. "Depends."

I try to keep my tone casual, leaning against the stall like this is just everyday locker room chat. "What's the deal with Devan and your sister?"

His hands freeze on his laces, tension running through his shoulders like a current.

"Sorry. Was that too direct?" I ask, when he turns his less than friendly gaze in my direction, eyes narrowing slightly. The last thing I want to do is to get on Master's shit list. I've seen what he does to opponents who piss him off on the ice.

He stares me down, his jaw tightening. "Yeah. It was."

I raise my hands in surrender, taking a small step back. "Look, I'm not trying to stir anything. I just. . .care about your sister and Chloe." The words come out more honest than I intended, revealing more than I meant to.

"I know you're neighbors. I know you've been around, helping out.

As my teammate, I'm grateful for you keeping an eye out.

I also know Lia can handle herself, and she doesn't need anyone digging into her personal life.

Lia's her own woman, so I don't need to warn you away.

" His voice is even, but tight, like a string about to snap.

"And as for Devan? That's not a story I'm telling. That's his."

I nod slowly, reading between the lines. Message received. His walls are well and truly up, and I've just been told to back off without him having to say it outright.

"Got it," I say, backing off physically and metaphorically.

"Good," Ridley says, standing, drawing himself to his full height. "Because if you're going to stick around, you should know where the lines are."

I don't know whether he means with Devan, Lia, or both. Maybe it's all of it—this whole tangled web I've walked into.

The rest of the game goes off without a hitch, the ice beneath my skates feels more like home than anywhere else.

We win 4–2, dominating the third period.

Chicago attempted to play dirty in the final minutes, throwing elbows and starting scrums after whistles, but we played tighter, smarter, more cohesively as a unit.

Devan and I are unstoppable on the ice. Every pass, every push, every collision, it's second nature, like muscle memory that survived years despite disuse.

When the final buzzer sounds and we skate off the rink, helmets raised to the cheering crowd, the silence between us is louder than the thunderous applause of our fans.

Coach Lennox gives Ridley, Jamie, and Sebastian press duty so I quickly strip off my gear and head for the showers as Devan rocks out to Kendrick Lamar's, “They Not Like Us”.

He stands on the bench in just his compression shorts, sweat still glistening on his chest, as the rest of the team cheers him on, screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs, jumping and dancing like they're at a concert instead of a locker room.

Devan appears to be the life of the locker room, the center of attention, but dare I say, I see past the forced smiles and faux excitement.

I see the way his eyes don't quite match his grin, the way his movements are just a bit too calculated to be spontaneous.

I skirt past them all and aim for the showers, the sooner I'm out of here the better.

The hot water stings against my bruised shoulder but I welcome it, letting it wash away the game and the tension.

As much as I am trying to fit in with the team, there is a part of me that can't wait to get home.

I will take all the time I can get to spend it with Lia, even if it's just bringing her dinner or helping with Chloe for an hour.

When the season officially starts, that time will be fleeting, swallowed by road trips and brutal schedules.

I want to ease her burdens for as long as I am around to do so.

Which makes me wonder as I towel off and dress quickly, what the fuck is Devan doing?

He has everything. A star hockey player, with a woman to die for and a beautiful baby girl.

He has a family and he's still living like a bachelor, partying with the guys, staying out late.

If it were me I wouldn't take them for granted.

Not for a second. Even as I think it, guilt creeps in and I quickly remember how standoffish Ridley was about the situation.

Maybe I don't know the whole story. Maybe there's more going on than what I can see from the outside.

Making my way out of the arena, I am slowly walking down the hallway, phone in hand, feeling the post-game ache settling into my bones. I text Lia, my thumb hovering over the send button for just a moment.

ME: How are my ladies next door? Need anything? I can swing by the store. Tylenol? Wine? A pint of that weird oat milk ice cream you like?

Three dots appear almost immediately, making my heart skip, like I'm some teenager texting his crush for the first time.

Yeah, I'm feeling a little giddy from the quick response, from knowing she was waiting to hear from me.

I should feel guilty, I should back off, but I can't find it in me to care.

If Lia wants me to back off, she can tell me so.

Until then, I'm invested in her wellbeing as well as Chloe's, even if that makes me the bad guy in someone else's story.

Lia: You're a lifesaver. Tylenol and that spicy ramen from Kaito's if you're passing by there on your way home. I'm starving. Chloe's been fussy all day. Teething's kicking our asses. She finally fell asleep but I'm too exhausted to cook.

I smile. Just a little. Just enough to forget how messy all this is, how complicated the feelings growing in my chest. I'm typing my reply, already planning the detour to Kaito's, when I hear it, well, him.

Devan's voice, just around the corner, low and strained, with none of the bravado from the locker room.

"Hey…it's me, Li-Li. I know you're probably asleep.

How's Chloe. Is she still struggling with the teething?

I've been doing some research and I might have a suggestion or two.

" He sighs, and the sound is so heavy with regret it makes me pause.

"Please call me back when you get this. I can swing by tomorrow, maybe pick up Chloe, give you a break.

I just. . .want to check in. I miss you both. "

I hear him sigh once more before he starts to walk in my direction, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. I make my way out of the arena and head to the parking lot before he can catch up with me, before he can see the guilt written all over my face.

My fingers tighten around my phone, the screen still showing Lia's message, waiting for my reply.

Here I am judging him when he's pleading for her to call him back. What am I doing? I'm already worming my way inside their lives, inserting myself into spaces where maybe I don't belong. Becoming necessary to her when maybe I should be stepping back.

Not by force. Not by design. I've made myself available in the guise of being neighborly, of just being a decent human being, but I know there's more to it.

There's the way my pulse quickens when she smiles, the way Chloe's tiny hand wrapping around my finger makes my chest ache with something I can't name.

I don't know what the hell to do with that.

I tuck my phone away and get in my car, just as Devan exits with Ridley and Tor, the three of them laughing about something. I drive by without a glance in their direction, pretending not to see them, with the weight of it all settling in my chest like a stone.

We're a perfect team on the ice, Devan and I, like no time has passed at all.

Off it? There's nothing but tension and cracks in the foundation, years of unspoken words and unresolved feelings threatening to break through at any moment.

I'm not sure how long it can hold. Because I feel like the dam is about to break, and when it does, well, I don't want to know how much destruction the flood will cause in its wake. I'm starting to think I'll be right in the middle of it, for better or worse.