Page 13

Chapter 12

Merci

The second the final buzzer sounds, I’m out of my seat, weaving through the mass of sweaty, happy bros, all still high on their stupid testosterone-fueled victory. My palms are clammy, my throat dry, and I can’t stop replaying the hit Zach took earlier in the game. The one where he didn’t get up right away. The one where I swear his body crumpled like a rag doll.

“Merci, are you okay?” Eli’s voice is soft, careful, from behind me. He keeps his distance like he’s trailing someone who might bite his hand off if he gets too close.

Which, spoiler alert, is a distinct possibility.

“Do I look okay?” My words come out bitchier than I intend, but I don’t bother apologizing, not when my insides are twisting like someone’s trying to wring me out.

“I mean . . . no. Are you freaked out by the hits? I’m still not used to—”

“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes so hard I might just see my own brain. “What’s not to love about watching a bunch of grown men slam into each other like rabid bulls on skates?”

But the fact Zach left halfway through the third period and never came back gnaws at me like a rat with a piece of stale bread. And yeah, maybe I shouldn't care. Maybe I should be glad karma's finally catching up to him.

Except I do care.

Hell, I even want to stomp the jerk who hit him in the throat.

I shove some lingering people out of my way as I beeline for the locker rooms. While I’m probably not allowed in there, I don’t give two shits.

Once there, I push open the metal door, and the sharp scent of sweat and whatever the fuck hockey gear is made of assaults my nose. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. That honor belongs to the time I accidentally left shrimp out on the counter in my apartment for three days in the summer. The place was low rent and didn’t have air conditioning, so yeah. Nasty as fuck.

I step in farther, scanning the room for Zach as I adjust Raiyne’s jersey. It’s too big and the fabric keeps slipping off one shoulder. The whole reason I wore it was to piss off my stepbrother—and it was doing its job.

Until that hit.

Then all I wanted to do after was take it off .

Outside of a few sneers from players who take in the jersey I’m wearing, most ignore me. They’re all scattered around, some still taking off their gear, while others are in towels most likely heading to shower.

A gigantor of a man pushes past me, reeking like he needs to take about five showers, then walks out the door. Guess bathing is optional. Fucking eww.

While I can’t find my stepbrother, someone else catches my attention.

Viktor-can’t-keep-his-hands-off-my-stepbrother-Novotny.

He’s sitting on the bench, goalie mask pushed up onto his head, laughing at something one of his teammates said.

“Hey, Handsy McToucherson.” I stomp toward him, and a few of the guys glance my way, eyebrows raised. “Are you physically incapable of not touching Zach?”

Viktor’s attention snaps to me, and for a moment, he looks genuinely surprised until his lips curl into a smirk. “Just looking out for my teammate."

"Right." I cock my hip, giving him my best bitch face. "Because that requires you to be all up in his personal space every five seconds?"

"Aw, is someone jealous?”

Heat floods my cheeks even as anger coils in my gut. "As if. I'd rather fuck a cactus."

"Really? Because you look ready to commit murder.” Then he winks as he begins to strip off his chest protector. "But since you’re not interested, maybe I should take him for a spin again.”

Oh, this bitch wants to play?

I launch myself at him, ready to claw his fucking eyes out. Suddenly, strong arms wrap around my chest from behind, pulling me back into a solid wall of muscle—which any other time, yes, please. But not now. "Let me go!"

"Merci, stop—" Zach tightens his hold on me as I thrash around, his low voice rasping against my ear.

But I'm not done. Not even close.

Viktor is still smirking at me, so I kick out hard, my foot connecting with his face with a satisfying crunch. Blood spurts from his nose as his head snaps back, the goalie mask falling off his head and onto the to the floor.

“Merci!” Zach growls, tightening his hold. “Calm the fuck down.”

“I am calm!” I continue to squirm, trying to get free. “This is me calm!”

He hauls me back a few more steps, keeping a firm grip on me like I’m some kind of rabid animal. Which, okay, fair. I might be losing my shit a little.

"Why are you even in here?" Zach's breath is hot and agitated .

"Because I was worried, dickhead. But clearly your boyfriend has it all under control."

A deep chuckle rumbles through Zach's chest. "He’s not my boyfriend."

"Could've fooled me with the way he—"

"Novotny’s mine." A deep voice booms from beside us. I turn to see one of the coaches standing there, arms crossed. "And you're not allowed in here. Get out. Now.”

While that should be a relief, it isn’t. Because the blond jackass goalie’s comment is stuck inside my brain on a loop.

They’ve fucked.

I look at Viktor, baring my teeth and snarling. Too bad I didn’t knock any of his teeth out when I kicked him.

Zach releases me, only to grab my arm, then steers me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

"Are you okay?" I blurt out, hating how concerned I sound. "That hit looked bad and—"

He pushes me into the hallway, his dark eyes raking over the jersey I’m wearing before he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "I'll deal with you later."

My heart races, my skin tingling from where his breath ghosted over my skin. Before I can say a word, he walks back inside and the door closes in my face.

I should be pissed off .

Mortified even. I caused a spectacle, sure, but I wouldn’t change anything about the last five minutes.

Well . . . maybe I would’ve tried to land a second kick.

But I’m also obsessing over Zach’s “deal with me later” warning—a threat and a promise perfectly interwoven. I shiver down to the tips of my toes, my dick twitching.

God help me. I’m so screwed.