Page 7 of Puck’N Enemy (Thunder Knights #2)

Logan

The air in the locker room smells like old socks, sweat, and the fresh smell of soap. My teammates are in varying degrees of nudeness as we shower and change after a hectic practice session this evening.

“I’m starving,” Mitchikov groans. “Anybody up for grabbing some burgers at the new joint that opened up in Kimmel Hall?”

“Oh, I heard they do some amazing smash burgers,” Henderson says, looking excited at once.

“Johnson, you in?” Aminov, Mitchikov’s cousin, asks, throwing a bottle of energy drink at me.

I grab the bottle before it can strike my face. “Yeah, sure,” I mutter, unscrewing the cap and taking a deep swig. “I’m good with anything as long as it comes with meat and cheese.”

I glance toward Hansen, our youngest recruit. “You should join us,” I tell him, squeezing his shoulder.

“Aye, Captain!” he says, giving me a mock salute and grinning.

It’s not long before we’re all dressed in matching Knights’ jerseys and jackets. Grabbing my gym bag, I lead the way out of the room, and we all head toward the trucks and cars parked outside the hockey arena.

The whole team climbs into four cars, and we drive the short distance to the food court just off the university campus. Barely anyone talks. Just like me, everyone’s starving and looking forward to some good, juicy burgers.

Once we reach the food court, we walk into the place like we own it. Mitchikov, the big goofy defenseman, laughs loudly and jostles against Henderson and Bastian.

Bastian glares at him, stony-faced, but lets Mitchikov have his way.

People stare at us but I’m used to it. The Thunder Knights take pride in their team and don’t shy away from attention. We walked loud and proud, both on and off the ice.

The hunt for burgers was supposed to be a quick break before I went back to my dorm room to finish some assignments. But it turns into a disaster the moment I notice a familiar figure with long, messy red strands.

Dylan stands behind the counter of an ice cream stall, wearing a thin pink apron over a gray T-shirt. His hair is tied with a loose band but despite it, his unruly strands fall all over his eyes. With absolute focus, he piles up scoops of ice cream into a cup.

I freeze for a second but the world doesn’t.

My teammates walk ahead of me, oblivious to his presence.

My heart jackhammers behind my ribs at the very sight of him. I decided to demand answers from him but with my friends around, there’s no way I’ll be able to confront him.

“What the hell...” someone mutters, elbowing me sharply. “Isn’t that one of the forwards from the Bears team?”

I stay silent, hoping Henderson will ignore Dylan if I don’t pay any attention.

“Hey, it’s that Larson guy,” Mitchikov says, his attention on Dylan now. “That’s the guy who took full advantage of our captain’s absence. The fucker scored goals after goals the moment they took you off the ice.”

“Forget about it—” I start to say but Mitchikov is already stomping toward the ice cream stall.

“Hey, Bear Boy!” Mitchikov shouts loudly, attracting every passerby’s attention.

Dylan looks up. At first, he looks confused, barely recognizing Mitchikov without his hockey gear. But then, his eyes flick toward me.

He drops his gaze in a moment, like I’m just as unrecognizable as Mitchikov.

Mitchikov slaps a gigantic hand on the counter, knocking over a stack of paper cups. “You’re working here outside our campus now, huh?” he jeers. “What, did Silverlake cut your scholarship or something? Or do you have to pay to be on that shit team?”

Dylan remains quiet. He barely blinks as he wipes a spill on the counter. When he’s done, he scoops ice cream into another cup and hands it to a customer.

Dylan stays cool and silent, ignoring Mitchikov’s intimidation like it doesn’t touch him in any way.

“Aww, c’mon! Don’t go all mute now,” Mitchikov sneers, doing his best to rile Dylan up. “Where’s all that cursing and swearing you guys were doing during the third period?”

A bitter taste builds in the back of my throat. I should say something and put a stop to it.

That’d be the right thing to do but something inside me wants revenge for what Dylan did to me back then. So, I stay quiet and hang back, watching my teammate bully Dylan.

I get exactly three seconds to savor the sweet taste of justice because the next moment, Mitchikov vaults over the low counter and shoves Dylan hard against the wall.

“Hey!” one of the workers shouts from the back. “You can’t be here!”

But it’s too late. Mitchikov takes his chance and hits Dylan straight in the gut.

Dylan staggers but doesn’t hit back or retaliate.

He just braces himself as Mitchikov shoves him again and punches him in the face. The impact is so hard, Dylan’s lip splits open.

For the second time, those luscious lips have bled this week.

Stunned, I watch the blood trickle down his chin. Dylan pants heavily but doesn’t hit back at Mitchikov even once. He doesn’t even bother to shield himself from his relentless attacks.

The Dylan I knew, the one from my past, would’ve fought back like a hurricane. He would’ve cursed Mitchikov out and punched him without hesitation.

Dylan’s temper was a thing of legend back in our high school. No one dared to rile him up because they’d end up with cracked bones and broken teeth.

Dylan also had an assful of pride that he guarded with a blade.

But this Dylan in a pink apron, handing out ice creams...is just not the same.

He just takes it without any retaliation.

And I hate it.

“Pavel, back off!” I growl, stepping forward.

I rarely call him by his first name, so Mitchikov glances over his shoulder, looking surprised. “What? I’ve barely started with him.”

“I said back off .” Pushing between them, I shove Mitchikov away.

“Bro, are you serious right now?” he mumbles.

“That’s enough,” I say quietly, casting my gaze on Dylan.

Apart from his bleeding lips, his right cheek is starting to bruise. But he neither looks at me nor speaks.

Wiping the blood with the back of his hand, he turns around and walks through the double doors, leading into the kitchen.

I watch him disappear like none of this mattered to him. Like I didn’t matter to him.

It takes me another moment to understand him, though.

Dylan wasn’t protecting himself.

He was protecting me .

He didn’t want anyone to know we have a history. This way, none of my teammates will know who we were or what we used to be.

By staying quiet, Dylan made sure there would be no rumors or scandals about us that could jeopardize our places in our respective teams.

My stomach twists. I don’t like the way he chose to get hurt to protect me.

Dylan didn’t have to do that. He could fight back and give Mitchikov the brawl and drama he was hungering for.

For the first time in weeks, the anger I’ve been holding onto doesn’t feel righteous. Instead, it feels hollow and stupid.

“Are we eating or what?” Bastian drawls, looking bored already.

I wrap my arm around Mitchikov’s shoulders, pulling him closer against me so he doesn’t barge through the employee door to chase Dylan. “Come on, troublemaker,” I say, dragging him alongside me. “You’ve caused enough disruption for the day.”

He frowns. “Larson’s such a boring guy,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or just a coward like the rest of the Bears. He lost all his nerve when he saw us coming in a pack.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, my mind far from my teammates who’ve already forgotten about the brawl and are ordering burgers.

This time, I want to know the truth about what happened to Dylan when he disappeared for three years. It’s no longer about revenge or even closure.

I just need to know what happened to the boy I loved. And why does he still look at me like I’m the only person in the world that can ruin him?