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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Royal

“Pass, pass!” I look up, see Banks streaking down the ice, and instinct takes over.

I flick the puck toward him, sending it across the rink just before Atlas slashes me hard across the hands.

Fucker.

The sting slides up both of my palms and I have to fight to keep hold of my stick.

Luckily, they took pity on the man with the bum hand and put me on the team with Banks and a few of his former and current teammates. Atlas, Dash, and the others are mostly old-timers, one current pro player, and a mechanic named Briggs, who has a surprisingly wicked slap shot.

Banks scoops the shitty pass up and cuts in toward the net.

God, he’s smooth.

And we’re all playing nice?—

All, except Atlas, who struggles to turn off his competitive edge, no matter the occasion.

He starts chasing Banks down, his expression intent (and maybe a little murderous).

Luckily, Banks gets the shot off—not his full ripper, but a nicely placed wrist shot that the goalie has to scramble to catch. He covers it…

Right as Atlas reaches Banks, giving him a light crosscheck for his trouble.

And light sends Banks to his ass.

“Rude,” Banks mutters, getting up…and doing so with his stick between Atlas’s legs…

Atlas goes down like a ton of bricks.

Dash skids to a halt beside me, digging in his skate blade at precisely the right angle to shower Atlas with snow.

Our billionaire friend sputters indignantly and—fuck me—my heart squeezes when I remember Jade doing the same thing, albeit much more daintily.

And prettily.

“Asshole,” Atlas snaps, reaching out and wrapping an arm around Dash’s leg, sending him toppling to the ice to do some sputtering of his own.

I freeze.

Then bust up laughing, so hard that I let my guard down?—

“Shit!”

I fall forward—okay, I’m shoved forward—landing hard on the ice with a grunt…

And Banks on my back.

“Fucker!” I growl, reaching for him.

We grapple for a few moments, but then the grappling turns into laughter and shit talking, and pretty soon we’re all back on our feet and focused on the game.

We skate until my lungs feel like they’re going to explode and my legs shake so much I’m pretty certain I won’t be able to walk tomorrow. But by the time we call for a break and suck down water on the bench, I’m energized in a way I haven’t been in years.

Then we jump right back out there.

And I’m glad.

Because I’ve missed this—the strength and speed, camaraderie and shit talk, the high that comes when I connect a pass or score a goal—and considering it’s a pickup game and there isn’t a whole lot of defense being played, I score a handful. But, more than that, I miss the time in my life when shit was simpler.

It was a small gig and eking out a win in a college game.

It was mixing our own Gamebreakers and getting drunk as fuck in a shared on-campus apartment.

It wasn’t getting random news stories written about me or hearing about the latest drama I’m creating in a TikTok video.

It wasn’t walking outside and having someone pepper me with questions to try to get a rise out of me.

And it wasn’t…

Jade.

That pit in my stomach that had been opening up, threatening to consume me, to send me spiraling with all the things I wanted and how they didn’t end up being as great as I expected them to be—losing Colt; the guys and I trying to keep it together for Briar and Frankie; the conflict in the band as I struggled to balance that and create art and keep to the schedule the record company demanded of us; the politics between agents and media and producers; the accident and Amber leaving; the news and recovery afterward—all of that freezes with just four little letters.

Jade.

“Heads up!” Banks calls, and I snap out of my head enough to see Atlas tearing toward me with the single-minded focus that is so totally Atlas.

So much for a friendly game.

My lips twitch, but I manage to side-step the charging Atlas and get the pass off.

And then I’m not in my head.

It’s just the game—the calls from my teammates, the cool rush of air against the overheated skin, the sting of the passes hitting my stick blade. My hand isn’t perfect, but it’s much better than when I’m trying to play my guitar. Gross motor versus fine motor, and really the passing and shooting is all about wrist and elbow movement and weight transfer, not being able to strum guitar strings in rapid succession.

I brace for Atlas when he circles back, shove him off, and I’m glad that he’s not actually trying to take me out when he lets me.

“Easy, fucker,” I tell him.

He just grins, like he’s having the time of his life.

And it’s such a shocking change from his normal stoic self that I find myself standing still, mouth agape.

At least until Banks skates by and smacks me on the ass with his stick. “Move it, Royal.”

I scowl at him, but it’s just for show, and then I’m moving again.

We play until the Zamboni doors open and they kick us off the ice.

But I’m still riding the high as we walk down the hall to the locker room and start getting undressed.

I’m just tossing my skates into my bag when Banks shoves his cell into my face. “Look,” he orders, hitting the button to start the video someone took.

I grin as I watch me pass him the puck on the screen. Watch as he dips and dances, using some of his lightning speed to streak up the side of the ice. But I’m right behind him, my stick on the ice, waiting because I know?—

And yup, there it is.

He chips the pass over to me…and because the man’s got the goods, it settles right on the flat of my blade, perfectly on target.

All I have to do is flick my stick and?—

“Nice fucking shot,” Banks says, bumping his shoulder against mine.

I grunt at the compliment. “Send that to me, would ya?”

He looks at me sideways—probably because we don’t take this kind of stuff seriously, and I’ve never asked him to send me a video before, not unless it was of Frankie being adorable, that is. But he doesn’t comment, just texts it over to me.

I pull out my phone, take an obscenely long time trying to find the right words to accompany it, then just decide on?—

ROYAL: Remember that whole hockey thing?

She takes what feels like an equally obscenely long time to respond, but in actuality, it can’t be very long since I’ve just begun to remove my shin guards when I feel my phone buzz from next to me.

JADE: I sure do.

My lips twitch and my fingers move rapidly on the screen.

ROYAL: Well, look at what I did today.

ROYAL: And I hope you’ll be suitably impressed.

ROYAL: *video*

Another long moment of anxious waiting—my jersey hitting my bag, along with my shoulder and elbow pads.

JADE: I am very impressed.

ROYAL: What other things about me impress you?

I add a smirk emoji as I watch the “...” dance, indicating her typing out a text.

“Really?” Banks asks dryly. “You think that shit will work?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, shoving down my hockey pants and tossing them with the rest of my equipment into my bag.

She texts me back after I tug off my jock—because my dick and hockey pucks don’t mix. Not to mention that the assholes I was playing with would totally cup check me given the opportunity.

But her message has me frowning.

JADE: I really AM impressed. And it’s really cool of you to share that after all you told me about hockey and the guys, but I’m kind of dealing with a situation right now. Can we talk later?

ROYAL: Are you okay?

JADE: I’m fine. I’ve got it covered. I’ll fill you in later.

ROYAL: Okay. Talk soon.

My scowl is real this time as I stare at the screen, trying to see through the words to figure out what the real problem is.

Her publicist? The record company? Something else?

“What is it?” Banks lips twitch. “Your bad pickup lines?”

I shove him back. “Fuck off, yeah?” Then I go back to staring at the screen.

Banks tilts his head to the side. “Damn,” he murmurs. “You’re serious?”

I shoot him a look and ask dryly, “What do you think?”

“And you’re worried?”

Every instinct inside me is screaming at me to shut the fuck up and avoid this conversation.

Instead, the word is torn out of me. “Yeah.”

“Let me see?”

I grit my teeth, but pass over my cell, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots through my jaw as I wait for him to read the messages.

“Well,” he says, passing it back to me.

“Well what?” I snap.

“It’s settled.”

What the fuck?

I glare at him. “ What’s settled?”

“She needs you.” He shrugs. “So you’re gonna go to her.”