Page 41 of Monstrous Serpent

Chapter 12

Cody

Trembley. And Kincaid.

It was them this whole fucking time. Like I was some kind of joke.

I grab the hem of my jersey and yank it over my head, then wing it into the stall. Shoulder pads go next, Velcro ripping as I tear them off and slam them onto the bench.

This was supposed to be my year. First Team All‑American. Dominating on the ice. And those two giant psychos just blew a hole straight through it. That asshole Trembley even had the nerve to call me cute in the handshake line. Bet he thought I’d look away. I didn’t. And I didn't give them my hand either. If the refs hadn’t been watching, I probably would’ve spit in the motherfucker’s face.

I grab my water bottle and squeeze it until the cap pops off and water sprays across my lap. “Fuck!”

“You good, Jenkins?”

I glare at the freshman four stalls down, then flop onto the bench and run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. Right now, I’m the farthest from okay I’ve ever been.

Kincaid’s hand is the one I humped for two seconds before blowing my load. Two seconds. Two goddamn seconds when I can go for rounds with anyone else.

I make sure of it.

Hockey and sex are where I bring my A game.

Usually.

But the list of shit I suck at keeps getting longer.

I tug harder on my hair until my scalp stings, my teeth grinding together until my temples ache.

Everyone else gets to subtract problems. I just keep adding them.

The locker room door bangs open. “Holy shit, you'll never guess—”

“Not in the mood, Doyle.”

“Bro, you don't—”

I whip my head in his direction. “Mason, just shut the fuck up.”

His upper lip curls back, right brow scrunching. “Seriously? Fuck you then. Figured you'd want to know Walsh's dad was choking the shit out of him in the hallway. Since he's your teammate and all.”

My head drops back, hitting the edge of the stall. The wood digs into my skull, and I close my eyes. “Shit. Is he okay?”

“Doubt it.”

The door opens again. Henneman comes through, nostrils flaring, a vein in his neck standing out. Never seen him so mad. He quickly strips out of his gear, not saying a word, then runs out of the locker room.

Must be bad if Henneman’s tearing out of here. Hope Walsh is ok.

Doyle looks at me, then higher, pointing at my eyebrow. “You should get that looked at.”

I swipe the back of my hand across it. Blood smears across my knuckles. “Trembley got a lucky shot.”

“Didn't look lucky from where I was sitting.” He pulls off his helmet and places it on the bench next to him. “What did he say to you anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. I've seen you fight him before, and you've never—”