Page 25 of Code Violation

“What’s worse is that the booze he’s always drinking was indirectly bought by me. Or at least, I contributed toward it.”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for his behavior,” I scold, which only earns a despondent laugh from Silas.

“How about this then, Ves? I’ll stop blaming myself when you stop giving yourself a hard time for trying to be a good, loyal girlfriend.”

He has a point, and the power of his words makes tears pool in my eyes.

Silas pulls me back into his side, and I hand him the remote, ready to shut out the world once again.

“Okay,” I whisper when the movie restarts, “you got yourself a deal, Mr. Stanton.”

8

. . .

Silas

These past three weeks have been the best start the Rogues have had to any regular season since the team was formed.

And I can’t say that I’m surprised. Last season, we recorded our highest-ever finish, and right now, we’re sitting pretty at third in the league. Will is living up to expectations, currently holding the best points tally in the entire league, and Mason and I are on fire in defense. Frankly, we need to be since our goalie, Denver Smith, is one of the only guys playing worse this season than ever before. He isn’t up to the task, and I can see his future on the farm team if he doesn’t start commanding the crease.

Aside from Denver, the only other guy struggling right now is my newly appointed alternate captain, Tristan Vaughn. Before Will signed with the Rogues, Tristan was the golden boy, the player fans would look to for a goal or at least something to cheer about when games were long and oftentimes ended in a loss. Now, he’s lost that spark, and fans are chanting Will’s name in place of Tristan’s. It’s no secret within the team that Will and Tristan’s rivalry has turned personal, and unfortunately for Tristan, it’s starting to really affect his game.

Tonight, we’re playing the New York Blades at home, and with less than five minutes remaining in the final period, we’re guarding a slender two-to-one lead.

Mason sends the puck up the ice to Will, trying to take advantage of the power play handed to us by their recently traded center. I hold my breath, praying Will doesn’t get caught on the breakaway as he skips past one defenseman and takes another out of the game with a deke pass to Tristan, who is already open to take a shot on goal.

Yeah, that will really help their rivalry.

Winding back, Will takes the shot, firing the puck straight between the goalie’s legs before he can get down to stop it. Nothing about that passage of play was easy, but Will carries it off like it was another day in the office.

Coach Callaghan catches my eye on my way over to celebrate with Will, and I detour to the benches.

“I want you to switch out for the last few minutes,” he instructs, straightening his tie, like he always does when he’s nervous.

I nod and take a seat on the bench, chewing on my mouth guard.

Will bumps fists with Coach first and then me, offering me his trademark cocky smirk as he moves down the line of teammates.

“How’s your wrist feeling?” Coach’s blue eyes fall to my left glove, and I roll my wrist, as if to prove that I’m not in any pain when the opposite is true.

Most players carry injuries their whole careers, but since I entered my thirties, I’ve noticed the healing process is slower and sometimes never fully complete. This particular injury has been recurring since I sprained it in a game last season, and I’ve been growing increasingly frustrated that I can’t seem to recover full motion in the joint. It’s not enough to stop me playing—yet.

“Candice worked her magic with it this morning,” I tell him, hoping the mention of the physical trainer will placate his concerns.

Candice is known not to take any chances when it comes to a player’s well-being.

Trouble for me is, I’m telling more lies. Sure, Candice asked me about my wrist. I just managed to convince her I was fine with my charming smile and high pain tolerance.

Call me irresponsible with my body, but hockey is all I have. It’s all I’ve ever had, and if I’m not on the ice, my mind wanders to unhelpful places, like what the girl of my dreams is doing and how I can fix up another opportunity to see her.

It’s been well over a week since we ate pizza together in her bed while she hid behind my shoulder. Pizza and a movie are basic activities and something most people share at some point during their friendship. To me, it was one of the best nights of my life, and after I graded her mermaid ten out of ten, I seriously considered making a move on Vesper that would either lift me out of the friend zone or bury any kind of relationship we might have altogether.

Maybe I should heed Chloe’s advice and let fate run its course with Vesper. It’s why I got the word tattooed on my body after all.

“Move that ass along and let your buddy sit down, will ya?”

I didn’t even see Mason get switched out. I shift down the bench, and he takes a seat next to me.