Page 12 of Twisted Play (Cruel Games #1)

TRISTAN

“Cowboy!” Cole hollered as I jogged into the locker room, grinning as he gave me a high five.

He embraced me in a firm hug, and I inhaled his familiar cedar and sandalwood scent, enjoying the feeling of our bodies pressing together, even if only for a second.

He’d never given me a moment’s indication he wanted anything out of our relationship but friendship, but that didn’t stop me from appreciating how goddamned handsome he was—when he wasn’t being a complete dick to everyone around him, at least.

“Missed you, man,” I said, pulling back so I could meet his eyes.

“Bullshit,” he answered with a grin. “We talked on the phone almost every day.”

“Like a couple of housewives,” Haruto teased. “Cole couldn’t go to sleep without his goodnight call.”

Cole swung at Haruto, slowly, lazily, with no expectation of actually making contact.

I was so glad those two were getting along again.

It’d been rough last year—nobody on the team knew Cole’d been to rehab after our sophomore year, and he’d been fighting—was still fighting—to win back the team’s respect.

Haruto dodged easily and caught me in a headlock. “Welcome back,” he said while rubbing my forehead with his fist, careful not to mess up my cornrows. “You two better invite me to your wedding.”

Cole’s answering laugh was free and easy. My eyes flicked to his, and I was startled at the warmth in them. I’d missed that fucker so much.

“Sure thing, Haruto. You and the rest of the team,” Cole said, catching and holding my gaze. “How was your flight?”

“Came straight from the airport,” I said, jerking my head toward the two suitcases behind me.

“Christ—you should have told me. I’d have booked you a flight yesterday,” Cole said, turning toward his locker so he could change.

“My brother would have paid after a lecture about thriftiness. But I’m here now.” The signs of fresh, untouched gear in my locker sent a thrill through me. This was the year everything would change. No more middle-of-the-pack for me.

Growing up, middle-of-the-pack would have been a luxury.

If it weren’t for my older brother giving up his own dreams of playing in the NHL to study business and go into consulting, I might never have made it to Yorkfield.

Hockey was expensive as shit, and he’d found a way to pay for the best coaches, the best equipment, everything I needed until I could stand on my own two feet, hopefully in the NHL next year.

He’d given up his dreams to give me a chance to follow mine, and I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t let it be for nothing.

He’d worked three jobs to pay for college while my parents were still broke and struggling, sending every penny home, first to my parents, then to pay for my hockey dreams. This year, I’d prove it wasn’t wasted on me, that I could contribute to the family instead of being just another expensive mouth for my brother to feed.

Cole laced up his skates beside me. “This year’s gonna be ours,” he said quietly. “I can feel it.”

The weight of expectation settled over me, but coming from Cole, it felt good, like together, we could accomplish anything.

Twenty minutes later, we stood on the ice, eager to get started.

Coach skated out to us, his massive frame commanding attention. With his hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed us like a general eyeing soldiers before battle.

“Gentlemen,” he began in his heavy Russian accent. The team quieted immediately. “Welcome back.”

Cheers erupted, but Coach’s sharp gaze silenced us.

“For the new players—I do not make inspiring speeches. I expect you to play your best every time you’re on the ice, and I expect you to treat your bodies with the respect they deserve when you’re not. I do not tolerate poor behavior, and I do not tolerate failure in the classroom or anywhere else.”

His words fell upon us like a warning, and a shiver of unease rippled down my spine.

I looked around the crowd, identifying a handful of new players who ranged from pimple-faced kids to men who’d clearly spent a couple of years polishing their skills in a junior league before enrolling at Yorkfield U.

One of them glanced nervously at Coach, and I hid a smirk.

“In return, I intend to take this team to another championship,” Coach continued, and we roared our agreement.

Impatient to start moving, especially after hours of sitting on a plane, I waited as he introduced the coaching staff, and then the support staff, all familiar faces, except?—

“Eva Jackson is our student medical assistant this year,” he said. Green eyes that sparkled under the bright lights of the arena. Long, curly red hair pulled back in a French braid. Curves for days and days and fucking days. I couldn’t look away.

Beside me, Cole had gone utterly still, his jaw clenched tight. Did he know her? My eyes darted between him and Eva, a sense of unease building in my chest. His reaction was a sharp contrast to the warmth he’d shown me earlier, and it left me off balance.

“Free play,” Coach finally said. “Get warmed up.” A male student dumped a bucket of pucks on the ice, and the crowd scattered.

Most of the student support staff made their way to the bench area.

My eyes stayed glued to Eva, sure and confident as she took her place beside Dr. Parker, the head athletic physician.

Coach’s sharp whistle cut through the noise. “You! Jason! Your grip is sloppy—fix it!” he barked. One of the newer players flinched and scrambled to adjust. Coach turned his gaze on another player. “And you! Stop dragging your stick like a goddamned mop. Move!”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the new medical assistant.

She was stunning, but it wasn’t just her looks that hooked me.

It was the way she held herself, like she’d built walls so high no one dared approach.

Her green eyes flicked over the ice, sharp and assessing, perfectly composed. I wanted to know everything about her.

Christ, look at her. Mine. The thought hit me like a slapshot to the chest. I didn’t know anything about her except her name, but every instinct I had was screaming that she belonged with me .

“Yo! Eyes on the puck,” Rami barked, firing one my way and jerking my attention from the striking woman in the stands. “Cute girls are a dime a dozen, remember? But this is your year, right?”

Rami was the team’s other starting winger, and like Cole, he’d already been drafted. He’d come in from a junior league and was bigger than just about anyone else on the team.

“Fuck yeah!” Cole shouted, skating around us and shaking his stick in the air. “This is our year.”

Last year, we’d missed the championship by one goal.

Our sophomore year, we’d won, but neither Cole nor I were first line for that game. He’d touched the ice for a few minutes, but I hadn’t.

I nodded, but my attention was already slipping back to Eva. She stood by Dr. Parker, her brow furrowed as she took notes on a tablet. When she glanced at the ice again, her expression hardened, a mask slipping into place.

“Baptiste!” Massi’s voice calling my name snapped me out of my trance.

“Captain,” I said, sliding to a halt in front of him.

His gaze flicked to Eva, then back to me. “Keep your dick in your pants until after practice,” Massi snapped.

Was there anyone on the ice who hadn’t seen me mooning after that girl? My cheeks heated.

“No distractions.”

“Got it, boss.”

But I already knew I was going to make her mine.

After practice, I skated up to the barrier between the bench and the ice, where Eva chatted quietly with Dr. Parker.

“Can I help you, Tristan?” Dr. Parker said, lifting an eyebrow and letting me know she saw right through me.

Dr. Parker’d taken one look at me during my first practice, straight off the plane from Colorado, the only Black player on the team, and made sure I had everything I needed to survive in the cutthroat world of Yorkfield University.

I held out my arms to her. “No hug?”

Dr. Parker laughed and let me embrace her over the boards. “Welcome back.”

I peeked over her shoulder to see Eva watching us with a slight smile. “Ah, she can smile,” I teased.

To my surprise, Eva’s face immediately closed down.

“I’m Tristan,” I said, sliding off my glove to offer my hand.

“Eva,” she answered, moving her hand out of range, her posture ramrod straight, and her face utterly devoid of emotion.

“Our student medic,” Dr. Parker said, her tone a hair shy of approbation. And off limits , she communicated with her warm brown eyes. I ignored her, studying the closed-off woman in front of me.

“We’ll be spending plenty of time together then,” I said, cracking the smile that usually had women falling at my feet.

To my surprise, Eva stepped away, leaving only her sweet vanilla and citrus scent in her wake.

“Dr. Parker, I have to get going, but thanks so much for showing me the ropes today,” she said, turning her attention away from me.

“Let me walk you out,” I offered .

Eva looked me up and down. “I’ll be gone by the time you change, but thank you.”

And then she left.

I couldn’t remember the last time a girl had dismissed me so clearly.

I hated it. And I wanted her—wanted to wipe that blank expression from her face and see what she looked like when she lost control, wanted her to look at me with respect instead of just another fuckboy hockey player, wanted—fuck. I wanted her .

Dr. Parker politely held back her laughter. “Good luck, kiddo.”

Yeah, I was gonna need it.