Page 11 of Hot As Ice

It’s in direct contrast to the powerlessness I felt as a child.

I barrel down the center of the rink. Ryder has the puck and is racing towards the goal. I catch up to him and check him, taking possession and turning in a wide arc. Then it’s me racing toward Martinez, our goalie. We’ve played together since hockey camp as kids. He knows my technique well. The challenge for me is finding new ways to surprise him. And I love a fucking challenge.

I can hear Ryder behind me, catching up to me.

Sweat drips down my forehead and my thighs burn. The pain and discomfort are nothing to me. Like annoying flies you swat out of your face. If anything, they drive me to go harder.

Ryder is right next to me now. He stick-checks me but fails to get the puck. I go faster, my eyes on Martinez. Waiting until the last possible moment, I feint left and he lunges like I knew he would. I drive the puck straight between his legs.

Goal.

Adrenaline pumps in my veins. Victory, even though this is just a scrimmage, surges through me. The only other thing that makes me feel this good is sex, although I haven’t fucked anyone in months.

We hit the showers and Martinez claps me on the back. “Nice one,” he says. “Enjoy it ‘cause you’re not getting another goal next time.”

I smirk. “Sure, Marty. Keep telling yourself that.”

I lather up. Tilting my face up into the steaming hot water, I let it wash the soap off me. Unbidden, thoughts of Stevie crowd my head. I picture her in my penthouse shower, looking at me with those big green princess eyes while I rub soap all over her naked body.

Fuck.

Thinking about it is going to give me a hard-on in the fucking showers I share with a dozen other guys. I shake my head and press my hands against the tiles, letting water run down my back. I try to think of something that’ll send my dick back into submission.

My asshole father comes to mind. Yup, that’ll do it.

I turn off the water and grab a towel, wrapping it around my waist.

Once I’m dressed, I grab my phone from my locker. Five missed calls from my father. Goddamn it. His calls always mean he wants me to do something that I will definitely not want to do. But it’s impossible to say no to him.

My family’s in real estate, and my father, despite being a raging drunk, rules Cruise Industries with an iron fist. I can’t risk having him cut me off. Not until I make the NHL and start making my own money. Being tethered to him at the ripe old age of 21 pisses me the fuck off. But no amount of appealing to my grandfather or uncle has made a difference.

My father’s an alcoholic and a murderer, and he’s been enabled by my grandfather his whole life. He was abusive to my mom their entire marriage and killed her when I was only eight years old. I couldn’t save her then, and I can’t save myself now. Not yet anyway.

I dial his number.

He picks up after the first ring. “Why aren’t you answering my calls?”

“I was at practice.”

“There’s an event this weekend and I need you to be there.”

“What event?”

“Your uncle’s new gallery opening.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“No excuses,” he says, knowing I’d rather die than be at one of the stupid fancy parties my family is always hosting. “You’ll be there early and you’ll stay until the end.”

“Fine,” I grit out.

“Good boy.”

I hang up, bile rising in my throat. He treats me like a fucking dog on a leash. A leash I’m always straining against. Sometimes it feels like a noose around my neck. I can’t let it get tighter.

As I’m heading to my first class after practice, Stevie pops into my head again. I can’t figure out why she keeps entering my brain space. It’s not like I’ve never seen a hot girl before. It’s her eyes. It has to be. They’re so big and innocent. They tug at something inside me.

I stop in my tracks in front of the university’s School of Business building. Her “debt” to me. I think I just figured out how she can repay it.