He sneers in Vanessa’s direction. “Women like her—no, people like her don’t like it when others pick up their discarded toys and treat them better and want to play with them.”
I bristle. “Grayson’s not a toy.”
“No, he’s not. But in her eyes, she still has a claim on him. It was always a sore spot for her that he divorced her so publicly. She had still been shopping around when he dropped her, and that really pissed her off. Now he has a human fiancée, one her son adores. Want to bet she’s got an itch about the whole thing?”
I don’t know if she’s got an itch about anything, but it makes me grind my teeth. I don’t know much about Vanessa and Grayson’s relationship, but whatever I am able to piece together does not paint her in any sort of good light.
“Did she ever try to see Ethan after the divorce?”
Brody leans forward. “No. Not that I know of. She left without a second glance. The pack refused to hand over custody, and she never asked for it. But she made sure that the whole pack viewed it as Grayson forcibly keeping Ethan. That’s why Grayson has never let Ethan interact with the pack so much, not after one of his female friends tried to kidnap Ethan to give over to Vanessa.”
“Kidnapping?” I stare at Brody, my mind reeling.
“It failed. She was caught before she could get far, but it made Grayson incredibly paranoid after that. He’s never trusted any of the pack females aside from Linda after that.”
I study him cautiously. “You keep saying ‘pack.’ What do you—?”
“Brody, you’re up!” Coach Ramirez barks, and Brody grins at me, grabbing his helmet.
“Gotta go.”
I watch him hurry on to the rink and hold Ethan tighter.
On the ice, the puck is back in play. Grayson weaves between two defenders. Brent shadows him with the focus of a man who’s been waiting a long time for this matchup. Every check Brent throws sits just barely inside the rules: a shoulder lift, an elbow, a shove against the boards.
Grayson takes it. He absorbs hit after hit and keeps moving, but something is working behind his eyes I have not seen before, a slow simmer that makes the air around him feel different.
The hits keep coming.
By the second period, Grayson has been driven into the boards four times. Twice it was Brent, once a winger I don’t know the name of, the fourth time the entire opposing defensive line piling on like they’d rehearsed it.
Why isn’t anyone stopping this?
At this point, Grayson’s team is trying to block Brent from getting close to him. But I know Grayson. He likes to get even.
Out on the ice, Grayson skates past Brent close enough that their shoulders brush. He leans in, saying something low against the side of Brent’s helmet. Brent’s head snaps around, but Grayson is already gone, gliding back to position with his face giving nothing away.
Brent loses his next faceoff because his concentration is shot.
A laugh escapes me under my breath.
“What’s Daddy doing?” Ethan asks curiously.
“He’s teaching his bully a lesson.” I rest my hands on his shoulders. Grayson is being sneaky-aggressive. Every time Brent throws a heavy check, Grayson absorbs it, then three plays later dumps Brent into the boards from an angle that looks legal to the ref but lands hard enough to make Brent gasp.
The third time it happens, I’m on my feet shouting before I catch myself. Ethan is hooting beside me, jumping up and down on the bench. The teammates around us are pounding the wall. Brody grins like it’s Christmas.
“Yeah, Wolfe!”
Grayson’s eyes flick to our bench as he skates past. Just once, for half a second, the corner of his mouth lifts.
In the third period, with eleven seconds left on the clock, Grayson scores the winning goal. A clean wrist shot, glove side, top corner. The arena explodes. Ethan’s screaming, I’m screaming.
The buzzer goes. The team pours over the boards.
Grayson breaks away from the celebration and skates straight toward our bench. The plan was a kiss for the cameras. What the plan was not was him clearing the boards in one motion, hooking an arm around my waist, and lifting me clean off my feet.
I yelp.
