Page 21

Xander, December 1st

I t’s been over a month since I learned about Nate switching with his twin brother, and two weeks since I crashed against Hoff’s facade of bullshit and bloated ego.

Going home to visit my moms over Thanksgiving didn’t help to put it all out of my mind, so I don’t know why I’ve been expecting the bus ride through Bonham to achieve that. Still, I try not to think about Nicholas van der Hoff as we’re on our way to my most dreaded game yet.

We barely have time to settle down on the bus before we arrive at Bonham Tech’s rink. While we’re gearing up, the tension is rising and barely breaks once we step onto the ice.

It’s a loaded first period, and I keep clashing with Van der Hoff—which should be impossible, but somehow, he finds ways to make my life harder.

The game is rougher in many other aspects as well, with more checks, several penalties, and other interruptions. The rivalry between Bats and Badgers that’s always praised from both colleges is anything but healthy tonight.

When we step back out of the tunnel for the third time our fights escalate: Two minutes in and the Badgers smash against our defense, with Van der Hoff right at the forefront. Taylor is doing his best to keep him at bay, but a sharp turn has him sprawled on the ice, barking curses.

I’m too late pulling back from the middle, can’t catch Van der Hoff as he comes up, hugging the boards. His captain follows him up the center. I take a chance and cover him to prevent the obvious back pass. Nicko curves back from the net, swings his stick without so much as sparing anyone else a glance.

Our goalie reflexively ducks his head, and the puck goes flying into the corner.

“That’s how it’s done!” Van der Hoff crows as he skates around the net for his victory lap, shaving past close enough to spray me with snow.

I grit my teeth and clutch my stick tightly. It’d be so easy to just move it an inch and make him stumble over the blade. Make him eat his fucking words. Instead, I move over toward my D-man who’s still down, letting my stick fall away so I can grab Taylor’s arm to pull him up.

Across the ice, the Badgers are celebrating, though their hero hasn’t joined them. Van der Hoff rather squawks at the enraged green-clad fans behind the plexiglass. When they howl and rage, he lifts a hand to his ear, spurring them on.

“Seriously? Could he try harder to be annoying?” our goalie complains, growling and throwing his water bottle back into his net.

“Guess he needs to compensate for his tiny stick ,” I say, loud enough for Van der Hoff to hear as well. My eyes follow him on his way back to his own half. I have to crane my neck, but I catch how Van der Hoff kicks my abandoned stick further down the ice, then gives it a hard stomp.

When I go to pick it up, the top part dangles limply.

“What the fuck?!” I don’t know when I made it across the ice, but one moment I was staring at my broken stick and the next I’m squeezing fistfuls of bunched up orange jersey.

Green eyes flare up at me. “Now our sticks match, Hart!”

“You–!” I wish I could think of an insult strong enough to give voice to all my anger. He parades around, mocking me like he doesn’t know how fucking hard I’m working. Like the wins he got playing on my team didn’t build him back from the pathetic wreck he was two months ago.

That’s what I really want to throw into his face: that he would still be sitting on the sidelines, moaning about not getting to play, if he hadn’t broken however many rules just to get an ego boost.

I don’t get the words out though; my fist will have to do. Van der Hoff dodges my first swing, but my speed knocks both of us over. His helmet smacks into the ice.

My knees hit it just as hard as I fall over him. I barely feel it, already pushing myself up with one hand. The other is being shoved away by Van der Hoff as he struggles to get free. One of his knees catches me in my stomach, but I ignore it in favor of landing a right hook—even if it means toppling over again.

Van der Hoff gives an angry shout as he surges up. Pain explodes across my mouth as his helmet smashes against it. Half-blind I push him back down, holding my arm over his chest.

I don’t see my teammates coming until one of them pulls me away.

“That’s enough!”

“I’m not done with this asshole!” I yell, stemming myself against the hold. There’s too much anger sizzling under my skin.

Van der Hoff isn’t any different. A linesman is hauling him away over to the Badger’s side. He’s struggling just as much as I am, green eyes blazing across the court.

My elbow catches the guy holding me in the face, and he stumbles backward. I still don’t care; all I know is that I have to get free to get to Nicko and–

“What the fuck are you doing, boy?!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise like a hot knife through butter.

I freeze on the spot, staring across the ice to our box, where I can make out the disbelief on my teammates’ faces as well as the mix of anger and disappointment that draws deep lines into Coach’s forehead.

I turn away before my eyes find Nate, shame clogging up my throat.

The referee chooses that moment to send me to the sin bin. I slump down as soon as I get there, refusing to look anywhere else except at the ground right in front of my skates. It’s scuffed up, with various cuts and marks crisscrossing despite the whole arena being brand new. My mouth is still throbbing where Van der Hoff bashed his head against it.

The ice is empty for several minutes, maybe hours, I can’t be sure. The arena doesn’t stop buzzing with noise, only hushing when the referee skates to center ice. I just barely raise my head, biting my tongue as I watch his arms move.

The announcement echoes in my pounding head.

“Number 48, St. Bernard’s Bats and number 16, Bonham Tech Badgers, both Game Misconduct Penalty for Fighting.” A groan goes through the ranks, and I can sympathize. None of this would have happened if Van der Hoff hadn’t run his mouth.

I take a deep breath, then I push myself up from the narrow bench in the penalty box, careful to not look my replacement in the eye as he comes over to sit out the rest of the penalty.

For me it’s game over.

A linesman herds me into the tunnel, away from all the noise and excitement. Away from the game. Not entirely away from Van der Hoff, though, because I hear him argue with his own escort behind me.

“That’s bullshit! I didn’t even start it!”

“Move along now.”

“But this isn’t fair!”

I scoff and shake my head. Of course, he’d complain about how getting a penalty isn’t fair to him .

I don’t know how I could have ever felt anything like attraction to him. Some form of sense should have alerted me that he’s still every ounce the obnoxious ass I had that interview with.

And yet I can’t help but hesitate in the doorway to the locker room from where I’ll have to watch the rest of the game. Van der Hoff walks past, head held high, staring so resolutely straight ahead that I hope he’ll get a neck cramp.

He doesn’t spare me a single look.

Somehow that makes the anger bubble up in my stomach again. If he had looked, then maybe there could have been something like remorse or shame in his eyes. But like this I’m half convinced he doesn’t give a shit that we lost our minds in front of everyone, brawling like idiot teenagers that don’t know any better.

The lineman walking behind him throws me a warning glance, and I duck my head, closing the door behind me. For a moment I just stand there, too aware of how loud my breathing is in the sudden silence of the empty locker room. It’s wrong to be here all on my own. Only an hour ago, I was surrounded by my team as we were all gearing up. Nate sat next to me, anxiously taping his stick. And now they have to fix my fuck up because I couldn’t control my temper.

I angrily yank my helmet off and only refrain from throwing it because I know it’s worth several hundred dollars, and I already cost the college an extra stick. So I grit my teeth and plant it on the bench. I want to slump down next to it but instead take a few stalking steps to get rid of the angry energy swirling in my chest.

Although the locker room is as new as the whole arena—Bonham Tech’s pride and joy—I barely have eyes for the fancy benches or the pristine lockers. Right now, it’s covered in dark green jackets that clash with the ridiculous orange stripes on the walls.

Eventually, I sit down in the seat closest to the door, but I don’t take off my skates just yet. It feels too much like an admission that I really won’t be going back on the ice tonight. I can still hear the crowd but can’t distinguish any words, let alone figure out whether they’re shouting about something good or bad.

For us that is.

The Badgers got the lead through Van der Hoff’s bullshit goal after all. And if I were still out there, I could turn it around! I know it! But no, I had to let that–

There’s another swell in noise from outside. Someone blows a trumpet or a horn. The sound echoes off of the walls. Its frequency has me jumping off of the bench with an angry growl.

I can’t.

I can’t! I cannot just sit here. If Van der Hoff wasn’t such an ass I could be out there. I tear open the laces and push my skates off. Next are my dark green socks with the shin guard. The arm protectors slide off easily. I fumble for a moment with my chest and hip protector, then leave it all scattered on the floor, uncaring that my gear is sweat soaked and a huge tripping hazard.

I don’t care that I’m in my compression socks and underwear as I inch the door open.

The hallway is empty.

Of course it is, everyone is watching the game—and we should be adults thinking clearly and taking our punishment in stride.

I should stay in line. That’s what I owe my coach, my team…everyone really.

Tomorrow I’ll be responsible again, once I’ve cleared my mind.

I take another look toward the entrance of the tunnel, the noise much louder now that I’ve stuck my head out of the locker room. Some silhouettes swish past—and then I turn the other way.

I don’t knock when I reach the other door, but I do almost bang it against Van der Hoff’s head; apparently he was on his way to pay me a visit.

“Come to finish the job, Hart?” Sneering, he jumps back.

I squeeze through the gap and throw the door closed, opening my mouth, but he doesn’t even let me get a shot in. “What the fuck was that? Out there?!” he hisses, like I goaded him somehow.

“Exactly! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Me? Oh, no! What the fuck is wrong with you! ” He’s pushing against my chest, bare hands looking ridiculously small and delicate since he’s still wearing his guards but not his gloves. He’s also still wearing his chest and shoulder guard, which I grab hold of to push him back against the wall.

“No. What. The fuck . Is wrong. With you?! ” I growl the words right into his face, leaning in close.

“You can be glad I didn’t fucking flatten you for breaking my stick.”

“I–”

“You should be thanking me for not telling your coach and the Rebels what you and Nate did.”

“Get off me!” He punches my chest again. But different from on the ice, there aren’t any pads in the way, just my undershirt clinging to my sweaty skin. I can feel the warmth of his palms through the thin material.

With an annoyed growl I grab for his hands with my free one, build myself further up.

“I hope you know that I’m not keeping my mouth shut because we’re going to be teammates. It’s only because of Nate that I’m not saying anything that could get you both banned from the league!”

“Like I give a shit that we aren’t BFFs? At least I wasn’t the one who got us thrown off the ice!”

“We got thrown off the ice because you’re an asshole!”

“Takes one to know one,” Nicko sneers up at me, his eyes impossibly green, slicing into me like shards of a wine bottle.

“I liked you better when you pretended to be Nate.”

“Are you sure about that?” There’s that challenging glint in his eyes again, the one that I always knew wasn’t Nate. And just like all those times before, it makes my stomach fall through the floor.

Fuck.

“No.” The word slips over my lips before I can think twice about it. But there’s no mistaking the way my heart jumps when he pulls me closer. I didn’t even notice when I let go of his hand in order to stem my own against the wall behind him. The fingers of Nicko’s left curl around my wrist where I’m still grabbing his jersey. His other hand wanders onto my neck, digging in.

All the while his eyes are burning into me, keeping me trapped. I resist the pull of his hand, but my traitorous eyes flick down to his lips.

Nicko smashes our mouths together with so much force our teeth clash. But then his lips mold against mine, just like they did at that party, unlike the hard-headed man they belong to. For a moment, heat and the tickle of his breath against my cheeks is all I can focus on, then he catches my bottom one between his teeth.

The spark of pain sends a jolt through every single one of my nerves like I’m being electrocuted. I’m not a blushing virgin, but Nicko doesn’t kiss like one either.

He takes my breath away by swiping his tongue against the seam of my lips, prompting me to open up to him. Then he pushes in without waiting for permission.

I groan lowly as our tongues slide together.

My brain struggles to keep up, but my body is happily taking over, effortlessly turning all that hot burning anger into smoldering arousal. My hands are wandering over Nicko’s body, ruled only by instinct, grabbing as much of him as I can, pushing under his pads. One reaches up to bury in his hair, which is almost as soft as before, even as some of the strands are stuck together with sweat.

I tug and his mouth breaks away from mine with a harsh gasp.

For a second, I’m searching for his eyes, feeling a moan slip from my own throat when he looks at me, pupils blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of green.

Then he slowly tips his head back, pulling on my neck again. His throat is delicate and pale, with faint veins running along the sides. I lean in to trace my lips down along the soft skin, inhaling deeply.