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“Thank you,” I whisper back, wanting more than anything to wish that to be true. “Your turn.”
He smiles sweetly, vulnerably. “For what?”
I lean back in my seat and get comfortable. “I told you a bad story from my past. What’s one of yours?”
12
Cam
I wasn’t ready for the honesty of Little Dove’s story. I was expecting her to say something stupid, like naked grandmas. Not the fact that her ex was abusive.
She doesn’t want to tell me his name right now, but eventually, I hope she’ll share it. Because I would love to pay him a visit. And I know I would have some assistance from the team too. He wouldn’t walk away from it. He would need to be carried, if he left alive at all.
How could someone hurt her?
Looking at the screen, I study her face, every beautiful inch. And then I realize I can do one better. I take a screenshot of her looking right at the camera.
Perfect.
I knew what story I wanted to tell the second she asked, but I need a moment to build up the courage.
“I don’t let anyone touch my back,” I tell her, forcing the words out of my mouth.
“Why?” she genuinely asks.
“It’s full of scars, much like your own. But mine were caused by a whip.” My voice is shakier than I’d like. But I’ve only shared this story with one person—Kos. “My dad used to whip me after practice, after games, whenever he felt like it really. He was my coach and would punish me for fuckups or mistakes or if he thought I had an attitude. He thought I had one most of the time. He was a cop, so I used to think he would always get away with it forever.”
“Was?” she asks, and I know what she really wants to know.
“He’s not dead, unfortunately. He’s in prison, getting what I imagine is treatment much worse than death. He tried to kill himself the first night there, but the guards got to him in time.”
She doesn’t say sorry, and I just now realize that I didn’t either. But I think we both know that I’m sorry is a phrase used when someone doesn’t know what else to say.
“Good. It would have been too easy of an out for him. A cop in prison? I’m sure he wishes he were facing death instead. But he deserves whatever pain he’s getting for what he did to you,” she says with anger.
As the wave of exposure crashes into my chest, I don’t shy away from it. I embrace it and feel it all.
“I’m glad you called, Little Dove. I wish you were here right now,” I confess.
She hesitates, and her lips open and close before she finally says, “Me too.”
A maniacal laugh leaves my throat as Knox is pulled away from me and is escorted into the penalty box.
“Sit your ass in the box, bitch.”
He cross-checked Kos into the boards and earned himself two minutes in the sin bin. Which puts us on a power play, five on four, not including the goalies. The second he connected with Kos and he went down, I was already on Knox with my gloved fist, pounding into his face. Owen Knox, number twenty-two on the Washington Wild, has been a pain in my ass this entire game, and I can feel the fight between us brewing. That was just a warm-up. The second he lit Kos up, a target was planted on his back.
Kos skates to the face-off, and the puck is dropped. It flies out to Brett, who takes off toward our zone. I swing wide, and Kos cuts down the center. Brett kicks it over to Kos, and I take off toward the net. Kos shoots, and it goes slightly to the right. The goalie covers it, and the whistle is blown. We set up for the next face-off, and when the puck is in Jensen Donnelley’s stick, the defender shoots it down the ice, giving us a moment to race to our bench. We are overdue for a line change.
I rip my helmet off and spray my head with my water bottle. I am so fucking hot right now. Throwing my helmet back on, I take a few large gulps of water and catch my breath. When my next shift arrives, I skate onto the ice.
The announcer shouts through the speakers that our power play has ended and the Wild is at full strength.
Knox skates out of the box, and I notice he doesn’t head for the bench. He’s staying in, which isn’t in his best interest.
Number eighty-one gains possession of the puck and flies toward their zone. I take off and see Knox slap his stick on the ice. Eighty-one passes to Knox, who prepares to shoot and is surprised when my stick meets his at the puck, mid-swing. I barrel into him, checking him as hard as I can.
His teammates try to get to me, but mine are already there to hold them off. Their own scraps start, and I focus on the one in front of me.
