Page 17 of Puck My Life

I push up from the chair and pause, looking down at the ice. My boys are watching me, I can feel it, and, sure enough, when I find them, they aren’t watching the coaches; their furious glares are fixed on me.

No, they aren’t mine, and they never will be.

“Just for a little longer,” I murmur and swallow hard on the lump in my throat. I sidestep and turn away, intent on leaving this all behind and getting some sleep.

“VAE!”

My shoulders tense, but I don’t turn.

“HOOK!”

Damn it! I whirl on the stairs and glare down at the ice. Deacon bangs on the glass with a pad, his face a mask of contained fury.

“Come here!”

I contemplate ignoring him and walking in the other direction, but Deacon will come after me. I make my way down to the ice. The team resumes practice, but Deacon and Malcolm ignore Coach Wilde screaming at them.

I almost feel sorry for him, but I know how obstinate they can be, and if I ignore them, it will make everything worse.

“Where are you going?” Deacon asks when I get close. A puck hits the glass beside me, and I flinch, glancing past Deacon to where Chase Warner is gliding around.

What an ass.

“Home,” I say, answering Deacon.

“No, wait for us.”

Such an air of command, like I should just stop what I’m doing and obey. I narrow my eyes.

“I have things to do-”

“Vae!” Deacon cuts in, growling. “I need you to help us buy Indy a gift. So, just stay. I’ll drop you home after we’ve been shopping.”

I recoil. Is he serious? I’m so shocked I can’t even think of an argument. Surely, he wouldn’t make me do it?

“I’m busy today,” I whisper.

“Vae, please. Help us; you’re already leaving. It’s the least you can do.” Deacon knows he’s hurting me; I can see it in the malicious glare he’s sending my way. He always knows how to hurt me best.

I glare at him for a long, hard moment and turn my gaze on Mal, who refuses to look away from that invisible spot over my left shoulder.

Betrayal. Okay, boys, you win.

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

I sit down beside the coach when they make it clear that my sitting in the stands isn’t good enough. He glowers at me. I don’t blame him; I don’t belong here.

“I thought I banned you from my practices?”

“You did. And I’m here, but not for long. If I could leave without a war, I would do it,” I mutter as my cheeks get hot. I clench my fingers hard enough to turn them white and ignore a couple of giant players who stalk past me, barely batting an eye to see me.

Coach looks at me curiously. “You all right?” he asks gruffly.

“All good, Coach. Have a plan and everything. I’m going to achieve miracles, you just watch,” I mutter.

He nods. “Good for you, McMillan.”

Coach Wallace might not like me and the influence I have on my boys, but the fact is he admires my work ethic. In that we have a lot in common. He is one of the hardest working alphas I’ve seen in my life, he’s dedicated his whole life to this club.