Page 21 of Twisted Play (Cruel Games #1)

TRISTAN

I couldn’t focus worth shit today. Every time I lined up a shot, my eyes caught on Eva’s red hair gleaming under the harsh arena lights.

She sat in her usual spot on the bench, scribbling notes on her tablet, and my mind flashed back to how she’d felt pressed against me in the library, how she’d moaned when I?—

“Baptiste!” Coach’s sharp voice cut through my thoughts. “Miss the net one more time, and you’ll be skating suicides until you puke.”

Beside me, Cole smirked as he effortlessly sent the puck sailing into the top right corner of the goal. Show off. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from how his muscles flexed, even under his loose practice jersey, remembering his words at the bar last night. Tristan. You. World domination.

What the fuck had he meant? Did he want me as much as I wanted him? Did he?—

“Again!” Coach barked, breaking my concentration.

I lined up for another shot, determined to focus, but Eva shifted in her seat, and suddenly, all I could think about was how she’d felt in my lap, her soft curves pressed against me as she?—

The puck went wide.

“That’s it. Everyone else, keep drilling. Baptiste, give me thirty suicides. Now.”

I swore under my breath and took off. The first five suicides were easy enough—goal line to blue line and back, to center ice and back, to the far blue line and back, all the way down and back—routine conditioning every member of the team could handle with ease.

But by ten, my lungs started to burn. By fifteen, sweat poured down my face despite the freezing air, and my vision had tunneled to pinpoints. Every gasping breath felt like swallowing knives. My breakfast threatened to make a reappearance.

Still, I caught the flash of her red hair each time I sprinted past, and I couldn’t bear for Eva to see me falter.

And then, I saw the worry in her green eyes when I stumbled on suicide twenty and how Coach deliberately positioned himself to block my view of her, as if he knew what a distraction she was.

By twenty-five, my legs shook so badly, I could barely stay upright. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

Cole had stopped running drills to watch, following my increasingly ragged movements with predatory interest. His intense focus made my skin feel too tight.

My lungs burned as I pushed harder, trying to outrun the growing tension.

“Faster!” Coach barked as I started the last one. “You think the NHL gives a shit about your distractions?”

Coach dismissed the team, never taking his eyes off me as I finished. I was still sucking in air when his voice rang out. “Baptiste. Locker room. ”

Cole took his time gathering his gear, eyes meeting mine with unspoken concern. Eva hovered by the bench, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Now, Baptiste!”

I followed Coach to the locker room, painfully aware of Cole trailing behind us, making a show of adjusting his pads.

Coach didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, highlighting the hard lines of his tattooed forearms.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” he snapped, dragging my mind from his attractiveness back to my embarrassing display on the ice.

“Just an off day, Coach.”

“Bullshit. We’ve got NHL scouts coming to every game this season. One off day could cost you everything you’ve worked for.”

Cole’s sharp intake of breath from the doorway drew both our attention.

Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Something to add, Carter?”

“No, sir.” But Cole didn’t leave. He just straddled one of the benches and waited, as if he owned the fucking arena, and it was his right to watch Coach dress me down.

Coach turned back to me. “You’re distracted, Baptiste, and it’s going to cost you.”

My heart pounded against my ribs. Did he know about Eva? About the library? About how I couldn’t stop thinking about both Eva and Cole since he’d made that comment about world domination last night?

The worst part was that Coach was right.

I had one shot at this—one chance to make sure my family never had to choose between paying bills and buying hockey gear again.

One chance to pay back my brother for giving up his own dreams to support mine.

One chance to prove all their sacrifices were worth it.

“I don’t know what you?—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” Coach stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the small office. “You have one shot at this. One. Don’t fuck it up for a piece of ass.”

Fury surged through me at his dismissal of Eva, warring with the sickening knowledge that he was right about my distraction. “She’s not?—”

“Tristan,” Cole interrupted, his voice soft but intense. “Thank Coach for his instructions, and let’s go the fuck home.”

I looked between them—Coach radiating authority, Cole watching with dangerous interest—and felt caught in an undertow I didn’t understand.

My brother’s words from the summer echoed in my head. “Don’t let anything get between you and your dreams, little brother, not after everything we’ve sacrificed to get you here.”

Shame burned in my gut. “Are we done?” I managed to ask.

Coach held my gaze. “For now. Get out.”

I pushed past Cole, our shoulders brushing in the doorway. The contact sent electricity skittering across my skin, but Cole didn’t seem to notice.

I shoved down my desire for my best friend into a dark pit. He wasn’t interested, and I needed to respect that. Like I’d respected Eva’s disinterest? I ignored the voice in the back of my head, telling myself Eva was different.

Outside the locker room, Eva waited, calm, cool, and collected, but when I took her hand, the half-moons her nails had dug into her palms revealed her worry.

“Are you okay?” she whispered .

Before I could answer, Coach’s voice carried from his office. “Ms. Jackson. Coffee.”

Eva’s face went blank, that familiar mask sliding into place. Without a word, she turned and walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers and an ache in my chest I didn’t know how to handle.

Fuck. I was in so much trouble.