Page 129 of Monstrous Serpent

But when I start to walk away, Hunter grabs my upper arm. I twist and swing, my fist connecting with his jaw.

“Fuck!” He lets go and turns, rubbing his face.

I grab my shirt from the ironing board and storm out of the room.

Tears streak down my cheeks, my chest heaving uncontrollably as I sprint down the hall. I had everything. Everything I ever wanted.

For exactly five minutes.

Chapter 32

Cody

No response from either of them.

No good morning. No good luck. No what are we doing later.

Then again, do I really want to hear from them right now?

Okay, maybe from Atlas because he’d say some shit about who’s kicking whose ass. And I hope he brings it today. I’m ready after he fucking kidnapped Blue again the other day. My mom told him where the spare key was, and he still chose to break in. Scared the shit out of Davis.

Honestly, I kind of wish I’d been there because my little brother cracked a vase over his head. Dipshit deserved it.

But Hunter . . . he already gave us a lecture earlier this week about fighting.

I tuck my phone into my bag and zip it shut.

Doyle's hand claps down on my shoulder, rattling my pads. “Let's go win this.”

I knock my fist against his chest. Sucks he won't be on my line tonight. We had something going the past few weeks—the kind of chemistry you can't practice into existence. But Walsh is back, which means Doyle drops to the third line.

Fuck. Henneman. Connor Henneman.

I shake my head as we file out of the locker room. That's going to take some getting used to.

Novotny slams his goalie stick on the ice. “Hope the Serpents brought a priest because they're about to witness a miracle—the miracle of zero pucks getting past this gorgeous fucking wall of perfection.”

Half the team chuckles when Coach Harper slaps him upside the head, telling him to focus.

I step onto the ice and take in four thousand Serpents fans packed into a building apparently designed to make every asshole in it louder. Green and black everywhere—jerseys, face paint, flags, some shirtless guy with a serpent drawn across his chest in body paint sitting next to an older man in a fire department hoodie screaming something at our bench that I can't make out but I'm sure is real creative.

They hate us. Every single one of them.

I fucking love it.

Halfway through the lap, I spot Ryan in the stands behind the glass on the visiting side, Titans hoodie on, settled in like he's been there a while. I tap my stick against the glass as I pass, and he grins, nodding once.

“Jenkins.” Connor glides past and hits me on the shins with the blade of his stick. “Eyes forward.”

Ugh. Possessive prick.

Doyle and I had gone to visit Ryan in the hospital after his surgery. Connor wasn’t there at first, but when he walked in, he literally grabbed Doyle by the hoodie and dragged him out. Ryan just rolled his eyes from the bed as if he'd already accepted his husband was a lunatic. I walked out a few seconds after. Connor yelled about Ryan needing to rest, then slammed the door in our faces.

I chuckle. Hunter would be the same way. But Atlas would probably do some shit like crawl through the ceiling tiles to get back in . . . just to piss off Hunter.

As I’m gliding across center ice, I spot Atlas about to make his way by. I smirk. “Ready for me to kick your ass?”

He skates past me like I'm not there. Eyes straight ahead, stick low in his hand, jaw locked. No chirp back. No grin. No shoulder check as he passes.