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Whatever he might’ve said next is drowned out by the swift opening of doors and the sound of children entering the ice.

Chapter 19

Toren

Paloma Blake is working on the team’s bench for tonight’s game.

Which means either Lily lied, which is highly probable, or Paloma is about to get a mouthful from me on ditching her shiny new roommate.

It’s like an itch against the back of my neck—the knowledge that the girl I know whose words are sharper than anything else about her is now roommates and friends with a girl I know who has not one defense against meanness.

Except, I fucking can’t. Because Paloma looks more unsure of herself than I’ve ever seen. And no matter how much my urge to defend Lily persists, I do know Paloma Blake, and I’m nearly sure it wasn’t her that caused this.

Which only leads me to one conclusion.

Lily lied to me, and she’s sitting home alone.

“Focus, Kane,” Matt Fredderic, aka Freddy, snaps out as we step into a quick huddle. First line is on the ice, ready for another face-off—only in the first five minutes of the second period. “You’re off your game and Dougherty is having to pick up your slack.”

I want to hit Freddy, but he’s not wrong. I’m distracted and pissed off that I’m distracted, and every time I turn my head toward the crowded stands, I’m sure I see a flash of red hair.

The first year after I lost everything, I used to have that hallucination a lot, convinced Lily was everywhere I was. And then, at the Harvard game, when I’d finally convinced myself that I was completely rid of her, she was there. And I’d just . . . lost it. Blacked out. Nearly got kicked off my freshman Boston College team.

Shaking my head, I feel Holden’s glove like a weight on my shoulder as he jostles me.

“Tor’s fine,” he says, chewing on his mouth guard. “Just irritated with the left winger fucker over there.”

Freddy nods. “All right, I’ll play captain.”

Rhys snorts but only shakes his head, letting our left winger fucker call it.

“Rhysie wins it back to Kane. I’ll tie up their center if I can but just crash hard and see if you can get it on net. If it flies, Hardy will loop high and catch their D sleeping. They’ve been off all game, yeah?”

Rhys nods, his face more serious. “Yeah, but that center kid is tough. Dougherty, be ready for a cross-ice feed. Kane”—he looks at me, less hesitant to address me directly when he’s in his game-focus mode—“if you get it clean, rip it hard on net. We want a redirect or rebound at the least.”

I can feel more than see Holden smirk, standing next to me. “I’ll pinch it if it pops right.”

Freddy rolls his eyes. “We know you can fucking score, just focus on the damn center.”

We break apart quickly, and I try to let the game, the play call itself, take my attention away from the constant stiff itching at the back of my neck, but nothing helps.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Only Rhys doesn’t win the face-off—a shocking moment, considering his usual record. He wasn’t kidding; their center is no fucking joke. A junior, and way too fucking good. We scramble and regroup, close to Bennett in goal, before Freddy manages to pickpocket their defenseman and shoot it across as he and Rhys chase after, followed by Holden and me.

The second line defensemen put their sticks in the air, so, watching the play closely, Holden and I head for the bench to sub out.

One minute I’m watching him glide just in front of me.

The next, Holden’s plastered against the boards before crumbling to the ice, the asshole left winger looming over him.

Just as I stop next to them, shoving the guy with my shoulder to help Holden up to his knees as he reaches for his helmet that fell off, the guy grins savagely and croons, “Aww, baby, do you get on your knees for him too? I know you love when someone—”

I don’t think, I just grab his collar and slam his back into the board, flicking off his loose cage with my glove before I toss that off too. He’s a talker, but he’s not a fighter, so it’s easy to get two good hits on him before he can even scramble his hands up to stop me.

And one of them was directly to his nose, so he’s already bleeding. Still through the mess of snot and blood, I recognize him. The guy from our hotel room last semester, who’d spent a few hours with my roommate who he now hit.

A more sinister smirk takes over then, and now it’s personal. Holden is my friend, my partner on the ice. Mine. I’ve met asshole guys like the one who just hit Holden, spent half my career in locker rooms with them. Made the mistake of putting my tongue in a few of their rotten mouths when I was at my lowest.