Page 12

Chapter 11

Zach

The sound of skates scraping ice and the occasional thud of a puck against the boards fills the air as we warm up. My fingers curl around my stick, the pressure uneven and awkward. They tremble faintly, the numbness worse than usual today.

I roll my shoulders, looking toward the other end of the rink where the Serpents are warming up in their ugly-ass green jerseys. Of course, Jackson and Blackwell are at center ice, talking—or more accurately, bickering. They’re also graduating and will be on rival NHL teams next year, but I have zero doubt their antics will still ensue.

Blackwell smiles and taps Jackson on the ass with his stick. My friend flips his boyfriend the finger while smirking. "Keep it up, asshole. I'll beat that ass later."

"Promises, promises." Blackwell winks before skating away.

“Cute,” I mutter as Jackson glides up beside me.

He quirks a brow. “Jealous? ”

“Of what? Public displays of stupidity?” I glance at him, my tone as flat as ever. “Hard pass.”

“Extra touchy today.” He bumps me with his shoulder just as Connor skates over. “Have anything to do with Eli’s new roommate?”

My lips press into a thin line. “Drop it.”

As much as I’d love to make Merci’s life a living hell, Alexei called and made it clear if I so much as breathed wrong in Eli’s vicinity, I’m a dead man. Not that I want to upset Eli. I actually like him. And I wasn’t lying when I said he was family.

Still, it was irritating when I thought he called Alexei and snitched. Turns out my friend installed a few cameras hidden in the dorm to “keep an eye” on his boyfriend.

Fucker.

My teeth grind together, nostrils flaring. None of those feeds better reach into Merci’s room, especially since he took the goddamn door down.

Connor clears his throat. “So, what is the new plan for your stepbrother anyway?”

"There’s no plan."

He cocks his head sideways. "Bullshit. You’ve been plotting revenge for how many fucking years, and now you’re just going to let it go?"

I don’t respond, skating to the bench instead, my breaths becoming shallower. Finding my stepbrother and killing him was supposed to be easy. And sure, the original plan went to shit. But everything feels wrong lately.

Off-balance.

Like the world shifted slightly on its axis the moment Merci came back into my life, stirring up emotions that make me want to scratch my skin off because I can’t make sense of them.

The attraction is easy. Merci’s hot. But every time I get off lately, I’m thinking about him . . . that’s a problem. Same way I watched him sleeping again, like some fucking guardian.

I’m not responsible for his demons. But Christ, the way he thrashes in his sleep . . .

The same need arises like it did all those years ago. I want to slay whatever’s haunting him.

It makes no sense, serves no purpose.

Not when there’s a boatload of other messy shit to deal with, like the fact my father is reaching out more than he used to. Mostly to make sure I don’t “do anything stupid” like try to kill Merci.

If he only knew.

My fingers tighten around my stick. The old man should give half as much of a shit about me, his biological son.

I reach up instinctively to tug at my hair, forgetting my helmet is on. My breathing becomes more rapid, pulse rate increasing. Luckily, the horn blares, signaling the start of the game.

Thank fucking Christ.

At least now I can get out of my own head.

We line up for the opening faceoff, tension crackling in the air. The Titans versus the Serpents is never just a game. It’s war, and tonight is no different. The puck drops and chaos erupts.

“Try not to choke, Reed,” Blackwell taunts, digging for the puck.

Jackson shoves him, all smirking dominance. “You’re the one who loves choking.”

Blackwell’s laugh is low and dangerous as he spins away with the puck. “We’ll see who’s choking when I score.”

Luckily, Henneman is there, cutting Blackwell off and forcing him to pass to Raiyne. I track the redhead devil, anticipating the play, and the second he touches the puck, I angle my body and slam him into the boards.

“Watch it, Knight. You’re gonna hurt my pretty face.”

“Wouldn’t want to make your fans cry.” I shove him off the puck.

He grins, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Aw, you do care.”

I ignore him, clearing the puck and skating toward the offensive zone. My job is simple—stop the puck, stop the player, and if necessary, stop their hearts .

But on occasion, try to score as well.

The period grinds on, each play more brutal than the last. I’m in my zone, blocking, checking, forcing turnovers. The Serpents are relentless but so are we.

Viktor makes a glove save that has the crowd roaring, but the momentum shifts when Trembley picks up a loose puck in our zone. I move to poke check, but my fingers slip and my stick clatters to the ice.

Fuck.

Trembley doesn’t miss the opportunity. He fires off a shot that gets past Viktor, the puck hitting the back of the net with a sickening thud. He skates past me as I reach down to collect my stick, his grin smug. “Thanks for staying out of my way, Knight.”

I skate right up into his face, our helmets touching. “Your own captain beat your ass on the ice last year in front of everyone. Guess it’s my turn.”

His smirk doesn’t falter. Instead, he points toward the stands. “Go ahead. At least it’s not my stepbrother wearing a Serpents jersey and shaking his ass for the crowd.”

My gaze snaps to the section he’s pointing at, and my blood runs cold.

Merci .

He’s wearing Raiyne’s jersey and shaking his ass like he’s in the middle of a goddamn music video. The crowd around him is eating it up, cheering and laughing.

A sharp, unfamiliar sensation spreads through my chest like wildfire. My nostrils flare, fingers tightening around the shaft of my stick. I skate over to the boards and smash my stick against the plexiglass hard enough to make it rattle.

Merci turns and blows me a kiss, his lips curling up in a wicked grin before he grabs Eli’s hand, pulling him up to join in, and the two of them dance together.

Connor skates up beside me, his expression somewhere between amused and horrified. “Eli’s gonna get it when Petrov finds out about this.”

Jackson joins us, laughing so hard he has to lean on his stick for support. “Knight, you look like you’re about to have a fucking heart attack. Maybe Merci’s the one who’s gonna kill you.”

I skate to the bench, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. My hands shake and my heart pounds with such force I almost want to vomit. I sit hard, gripping the edge of the bench as my gaze drifts back to Merci. His presence here is unexpected, unsettling.

Like an itch under my skin I can't scratch.

Growling under my breath, I look away and focus on the game. The next few plays only get more intense. Near center ice, Blackwell and Jackson go at it, throwing punches like it’s a heavyweight title match. Blood splatters the ice as their fists connect, but neither backs down. The crowd roars, eating up the brutality like candy.

The refs eventually pull them apart, sending both to the penalty box. Blackwell’s lip is bleeding, and Jackson’s eye is swelling shut, but they’re both grinning like dumbasses. Still don’t understand how they consider fighting foreplay.

But it’s better than them being soft with one another. They put the game first, and I respect that.

I go back out for the next shift, determined to get my head in the game again. The Serpents have control of the puck and get past Henneman, sending the puck into the corner. I chase it down, beating them there by half a second.

As I turn to clear the puck, Trembley slams into me from behind, driving me face-first into the plexiglass. The impact rattles my skull, and I drop to the ice, disoriented, my vision swimming.

The whistle blows, stopping the play, but I barely register it.

Viktor is at my side in an instant, his voice low and concerned. “You good? ”

“Fine.” My voice is sharp as I try to blink away the spots in my vision.

He helps me back onto my feet, then glances over my shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” I follow his gaze and spot my stepbrother standing by the plexiglass, his face bright red as he glares daggers at Viktor.

Viktor chuckles. “Huh, whadda you know? Looks like that little shit’s jealous.”

“What?”

I lean over to grab my stick off the ice as I wait for him to respond, but I almost fall. He grabs my upper arm and helps keep me steady, the smile now gone.

“You’re not okay.”

I stand straight. “Said I’m fine.”

He skates closer. “No, you’re not. Talk to Beckett.”

“No.”

“Zach—”

“I said no.” I skate off to the bench, ignoring the throbbing in my head.

Coach Harper is the last person I’ll ever ask for help. The man already hates me and if he finds out about my hand—about my brain damage—he’ll use it against me and take away the one thing I’m actually good at. Take away the only place where my inability to process emotions doesn't matter.

Losing hockey is not an option.