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In a home game, he’d be there. But my phone buzzes, interrupting the song. I ignore it, appreciating the music. As the last note fades, I glance at my screen, grinning. Then, poof—my phone vanishes.
“Tray, I’m not fucking around. Give it back now.” My heart races as Tray stands behind Kal as if he will do anything, but even Kal is raising an eyebrow at my reaction. My phone is locked, and Tray can’t get on the text thread, but he can see what Mr. Stiles sent me and I have no idea what it even says. Hot flushes travel through me as I pin Tray with a serious expression putting my hand out for the phone.
“I’m not fucking around.” I should have known Tray wouldn’t give a shit if he pissed me off. He peeks down at the phone and frowns, and then his eyes meet mine. They widen as a smile broadens into a full-blown grin.
“The fact I love you, I won’t say anything out loud, but, Kal,” he says, showing Kal the screen, who frowns down and then shifts his attention to me.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
Kal eyebrows meet his hairline as he says. “Not gonna lie, I’m shocked,” he admits.
Tray, quieter now, approaches. His eyes bore into mine, curiosity laced with confusion.
“You? Brayden Anders. A sub?” he whispers. I open my mouth to protest, then it hits me. Snatching the phone from Tray, I glance down.
Sir:
S2R8S24
Mr. Stiles asked for my number and told me not to save him under something discreet. I didn’t think about how it would look to someone else, though. Now they think I’m submissive, which is laughable.
“Is that some kink code or something?” Tray asks, walking behind me as I head back to my locker to put my phone away.
“No, Tray.” I sigh out. Rubbing my temple, I try to work out what I can say, but there is nothing. I will have to let them think I’m a sub. This is a fucking joke. As I approach my locker, I glance down at the screen, frowning at Mr. Stiles’ text. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Me:
??
What does that message even mean? I can’t wait around for his reply. Everyone’s streaming out of the changing room. I toss my phone into my locker and snatch my helmet.
“You’re not getting off that easily,” Tray whispers in my ear, leaning over my shoulder. “I want all the details.”
“You’re worse than a fucking girl,” I hiss back. Suddenly, a firm hand lands on my ass, and I whip around to find Tray grinning.
“My bad—you probably got turned on by that,” he quips, erupting into laughter. Kal joins in. And I wonder why I’m friends with these idiots.
As we step out onto the ice, the stadium echoes with the collective roar of the crowd. The ice awaits, pristine and unforgiving. My eyes sweep across the sea of colors—the Devil Hawks’ faithful in black and red, a stark contrast to the Chicago Cheetahs’ white and orange jerseys. It’s an away game, but our supporters are here in force.
Kal taps his stick against my knee pads, a familiar pregame ritual. His head collides with mine, helmet to helmet. “What’s the plan today, Quake?” he shouts, adrenaline in his eyes.
“We’re shattering,” I reply, my grin matching his intensity.
“That we are, baby.” Kal winks, then glides off to claim his position on the ice. The game awaits, and we’re ready to leave them in pieces.
I come head-to-head with the Cheetahs’ forward. He’s built like a fucking brick house that isn’t coming down from no earthquake. Of course, on the one day I need to show the scouts what I’m about, I’m up against the fucking hulk.
But they say the bigger they are, the harder they fall. People shatter upon impact. His eyes, filled with pure hatred, lock onto mine. He knows me, and he aims to break me.
Not a chance.
On the ice, noise fades; it’s just me, my teammates, the puck, and the goal. The rest? Mere obstacles to skate around. The brute opposite me smirks.
“Quake, isn’t it?” he asks.
“And you are?” I question. His eyes darken—I’ve hit a nerve. “Actually,” I add, “you’re the one with that . . . mom.” His anger flares, and from the corner of my eye, I see the puck ascend. This is my moment.
“What mom?” he grits.
