Page 7 of These Wicked Games (Wicked Sins #1)

three

Oli

Y ou could say hockey players are superstitious.

My friends and I are no exception.

Grey wears the same socks every time we have an away game.

They’re blue with little ducks on them, the ones his niece had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago.

Atlas has to listen to ABBA before a game, while he gets ready in the locker room.

Me? I don’t know if I have any superstitions, but I do talk to my mother in my head before each game.

I think that’s less superstition and more I need it.

All I say is that I miss her, I wish she were here to share it with me, and to wish me luck.

My mother grew to love hockey as much as I did.

Then we have our victory tradition at away games.

After every win at an away game, Greyson, Atlas, and I find some obscure dive bar after drinks with the team.

The more remote the better. If it looks like the set of a horror film .

. . perfect. It’s not that we aren’t as close with the other guys, it’s just that after drinks with the team, everyone else either goes back to their hotel to talk to their families, wives, girlfriends, or takes back a woman they met at the bar.

Not us. This is tradition.

“This place looks like a shithole,” Grey says.

Which means it’s perfect.

I look over to Atlas rubbing his fingers through his hair.

Something’s been a bit off with us all. I saw what happened on replays, and being there on the ice seems to have shaken him a bit.

I clap my hand on Atlas’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and he swings those electric blue eyes to me.

I honestly thought when he first got signed that he dyed his hair; it’s such a striking contrast.

Grey has been with the Otters for almost twelve years.

He was drafted when he was twenty and has been lucky enough to call Oregon home this entire time.

He’s a lifer. This game and his team are his world, along with his sister Alyssa and her six-year-old daughter.

He’s gotten many offers to trade, more lucrative contracts, and better teams, but he loves it here.

We instantly clicked when I got signed, and Grey was one of the few people to believe my story about the drug test.

Atlas got signed two years ago, and while he is only twenty-four, we kind of adopted him into our group.

We’re all close, but it’s like Greyson feels responsible for him even though Atlas is eight years younger than him.

We’re all best friends, but I know Grey knows about Atlas’s upbringing—something he’s never shared with me.

I don’t know why, and I’m okay with that.

It’s his story and he has a right to tell anyone he wants.

We’re all close, and our different ages and experience levels don’t matter, because when the three of us are out on the ice at the same time, we’re nearly unbeatable.

Walking up to the tiny hole in the wall, we pass people who are outside smoking.

Some stop talking to watch us as we walk up to the door, and the same anxiety hits me like it always does going somewhere new.

You never know if you’re welcome. This isn’t our home turf, and we won tonight.

Hockey may not be as popular as football or basketball, but in the areas where hockey is strong, the fans go hard.

We never know what reception we’ll get going out, and maybe that’s why we do it.

The adrenaline. We try to pick a new place every time.

Stale smoke, beer, and something sharp like patchouli hits us as we enter the dive.

Tables and booths line the walls. The place is dimly lit with some blues singer crooning from the speakers, and most of the bar stools are full.

Loud chatter makes it a bit deafening. Some eyes swing to us, most of them stunned, and a couple seem to glare but then turn back to their company.

We mind our own buisness. We’re here to drink and hold up tradition.

We slide into a booth that could probably fit four to five normal-sized people, but Grey and Atlas cram into one side while I slide into the other.

Atlas cranes his neck, no doubt checking out the fishing pond he’s stumbled into.

“Could’ve taken any number of chicks home at the last bar. ” Grey shakes his head.

“Yeah, but we always go out after. I’m not going to fuck this up. This is tradition, Grey! It’s holy. Sacred. Like peanut butter ice cream, or gapless thighs.” Atlas groans as if he’s thinking about it. Grey just rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “At least I can get chicks, father time.”

“Fuck off. I’m not that old.” Grey’s eyes flick to me, uneasy. “Maybe I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“And maybe a pig will crawl out of my ass.” Atlas shakes his head.

I ignore the idiots I call friends, and watch a waitress walk up to our table.

She’s pretty, with black hair slicked back in a pony tail, ebony skin that seems to shimmer under the lights, and a wide smile that promises a whole hell of a lot of mischief.

Her eyes sparkle, gliding over each of us. Her name tag says Vanessa.

Atlas’s attention snaps like a fire cracker as she juts her hip out, holding out a pad of paper. “What can I get you gentlemen?” Her honeyed voice is sweet and smoky.

She is gorgeous, but I feel nothing. Am I even trying to feel something?

I’m not sure what’s happening to me lately, but I’m just not feeling it.

The first few years of my Otters career I’ll admit, my bed was never cold.

Lately shit’s just been missing, and I don’t know if it’s me or something deeper that I’m not okay with picking at. “That depends. Are you on the menu—”

Grey slaps the back of Atlas’s head. “Manners. Try again.”

She shakes her head, looking to Grey. “What about you, since you seem to know how to speak to women?”

“Who’s father time now, prick?” Grey preens, sticking out his tongue at Atlas then asking for whatever draft is on tap, while I ask for a whiskey neat. I need something to take this edge off. Ever since fighting with Andre today on the ice, I’ve felt this adrenaline that just won’t wane .

“Pina colada,” Atlas grumbles. We both look at him. “What?! They’re delicious.” His eyes go to the waitress, but thankfully he keeps his mouth shut.

“What’s the magic word?” she teases him.

“Please,” Atlas mutters, settling back in the seat. “And I’m sorry.” He folds his arms over his wide chest. “You’re very beautiful.”

“Apology accepted.” She pinches his cheek. “You boys played a great game tonight.” Surprise hits me. “You, mister.” She points to me. “You’re not supposed to punch the opposing goalie, though. Isn’t that like, rule number one in hockey?”

I laugh. “Can’t help it when he has such a punchable face.”

She smiles, shaking her head. “Well, be nice. No causing problems in my bar.” She moves to the side, looking behind her.

“Mister punchable face is a regular, and a friend of mine.” It takes me a minute to see him, but when I do my heart stops.

No! Not stops. It burns . Ignites! Fury rolls through me.

My fists clench under the table. Andre is seated on the far bar stool, talking—no, laughing—with another bartender.

“Be nice.” She pats my shoulder, walking away.

Andre turns his head, his gaze landing on mine with a hardened look.

Fuck, I’m still staring. “Whoa, chill.” Grey kicks me under the table.

“Game’s over.” If only my hatred for that prick ended there.

What Andre and I have goes beyond the ice.

Rivals don’t stop being rivals when the clock runs out and the skates come off.

Especially when one of them sabotaged the other’s career . . . or tried to.

Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him . My fists clench again.

“Dude, chill.” Grey’s eyes level me, center me.

While I love my friends, they just don’t fully understand it.

Grey is the voice of reason—he doesn’t give in to pressure or stress—and his level head is one of the many reasons why he’s such a good player.

If he wanted my position, he could easily be captain.

Meanwhile, Atlas is a barely contained twister.

“Here you are, fellas.” Vanessa drops our drinks off and gives Atlas an extra pina colada. His eyes brighten. “On the house.” She winks, then turns away from us.

“I’m in love,” Atlas sighs, taking a loud slurp, and Grey just shakes his head, grabbing the spare drink. “Hey! Get your own!” Grey ignores him, taking a swig then putting it down. Atlas’s eyes glare a hole in his head as he sets it down.

“Delicious, huh!” Grey chuckles, messing up his hair.

We play Fresno tomorrow. Not that I’m worried about it; it’s just the travel that sucks. After, though, we have a stretch of home games coming. Thank fuck.

“Any word from Coach about Rocky?” Grey asks me.

I shake my head. After my drug test—negative, thank you very fucking much—I texted coach before we all went out, but no word yet.

I hate seeing my players get hurt. “He had to have fractured something.” Being able to skate off the ice is a good sign, but Rocky being carried out on a stretcher makes me sick. Head injuries are no fucking joke.

“What do you think we’ll do?” As a captain I’m used to taking charge, but right now I’m not really sure.

We could pull a goalie out of the reserves, but we’re not far into this season and both our main goalies are now injured.

Kieffer, our first goalie, will be out for the rest of the season, if he even comes back at all.

He’d gotten hurt over the summer in a boating accident.

Thankfully he’ll be okay, but the damage done to his leg was detrimental.

We already pulled Landon from our farm league, and now, depending on what’s going on with Rocky . . . Yeah, it’s not looking good.

“I’ll talk to Coach tomorrow,” I say.