I roll my eyes. “I did not.”
“You tried to talk me out of it.”
“I pointed out the logistical difficulties of you being with a human.”
“And how would you feel if someone pointed out the logistical difficulties of you being with Felix?”
My mood dips, and I glance out toward the ice. “Don’t worry, I’m already aware of them.”
Raðulfr frowns, but then Brandt says, “All this bickering is bad for my vibes. Raðulfr might have no-fun Eoin here tonight?—”
“Hey!” Eoin exclaims, just as Dáithí joins us.
“Sorry, babe, but it’s not untrue.”
“—but I lucked out and got Wil, which means we’re definitely going to talk to the people later. Riley, tell me, what’s the general feeling among your friends about dragons your age? Because I know there are some here tonight I could introduce you to.”
Riley’s eyes just about pop out of his head. “Yes. Please. Do they live locally? My best friend is having a party this weekend, and I could totally bring them. It would be like the outreach program Ari’s doing, only with no hockey and lots of—” He slams his mouth shut, and I make a mental note to mention to Felix that his seventeen-year-old nephew probably needs a talk about being safe at parties.
As Riley dives headfirst into conversation with Brandt, Dáithí murmurs to me, “Felix adores his nephew, and that kid is having the time of his life. This is going to earn you major points with your boyfriend.”
I shake my head instinctively. “It’s not like that with us.”
Dáithí scoffs. “Sure it’s not. Come on, let’s get some food before puck drop. You’re not technically on duty tonight, so you can have a beer with us.” As he drags me away, I glance back tomake sure Riley’s good and notice the king watching me with a troubled expression.
Fuck. The last thing I want is for him to doubt my dedication.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Felix
I stealthe puck from one of the players I most admire in this league, ignore the rush of satisfaction, and take off down the ice. It’s one of those times where everything falls into place—our players are all where they’re supposed to be, the Glaives’ players are all slightly out of sync, and I can practicallysmella goal in our near future.
Glimpsing a Glaives’ D-man approaching fast, I look for opportunities and see that Hebbe’s open—so I pass.
To everyone’s surprise, the pass not only connects smoothly but he bulldozes his way through two Glaives’ players while keeping possession of the puck, handling it with more skill than I thought he was capable of. He takes his shot, but it pings off the left post, and bitter disappointment lodges in my gut as the arena groans.
It’s not over, though—Vitter swoops in for the rebound, spins, and smoothly passes to Kircic, who sends it over to me, back near the blue line. I take it up to the right face-off dot, ducking the Glaives’ captain, then fire it across the ice to Vitter, still by the net, who tips it in.
The crowd screams.
I slam into Vitter, yelling, “Fucking beauty!” He’s screaming too, a grin splitting his face, and then Hebbe collides with us both, followed by Kircic and Yancey, all of them shouting. It’s one of the best moments of any game I’ve ever played—I can’t remember the last time we scored because of this level of teamwork, and I fucking love celebrating a goal as a team like this.
As we skate over to the bench to get our fist bumps, I let my gaze skim the crowd. There are more people than usual for a home game, even with the influx of Glaives’ supporters. I don’t know if that’s because of our epic season so far or because Erik’s been hard at work with all that marketing stuff—he’s been making us film videos for social media for weeks—but it’s amazing to hear our supporters.
There’s a brief stoppage of play for an ad break—something the community television broadcasters adopted from the human networks that everyone hates—and the cameramen start picking fans out of the crowd to put on the jumbotron. Last season, that irritated the crap out of me (although to be fair, last season everything irritated the crap out of me), but tonight, seeing the people dressed in team colors and jerseys, holding up signs saying that Vitter is hot or that “Ansas is the Answer” makes me even more determined to win.
I like the idea of being “the answer” to victory. Or whatever.
The picture on the jumbotron changes to show one of the suites, with my friends and Riley sitting in the front row of seats. My nephew leaps to his feet when he sees himself on the screen, half turning so people can see my number and name on the back of his jersey, and I grin.
“Got yourself a teenybopper fan,” Yancey jokes and squirts water into his mouth.
“That’s my nephew,” I tell him, just as the announcer says, “A big Warhammers welcome to King Raðulfr of the Elves and Wingleader Brandt of the Dragons!”
Yancey’s brow goes up. “That’s fancy company your nephew is keeping. Your brother some kind of billionaire?”
I snort and shake my head. “Ari arranged it.”
