Page 45 of Play Dirty

No one argued with that, because they all seemed to know it was true. Tomorrow’s game against the Hudson River Phantoms was a big one. Huge one, actually.

I leaned back a little, cradling my now warm mug, watching as the conversation evolved into something constructive. The guys switched seamlessly into game mode. They began talking lines, matchups, adjustments. All things I could work on. All things I understood, and could help control.

Across the table, Ares finally looked at me. Just for a second, but long enough. His expression was measured, and totally unreadable. His eyes shifted away just as quickly, as if unwilling to give me another thought.

Grayson, however, didn’t look at me at all.

And that, I realized, was its own kind of attention.

~ 17 ~

HAVEN

Practice wasn’t just practice, it was a war zone.

Mercer drove the team like he was trying to break something loose inside them. He pushed drills past the point of muscle memory and into pure grit, where instinct either sharpened or snapped.

“Run it again!”

There was no wasted movement; no easy reps. Just relentless pressure, shift after shift, until legs dragged and tempers flared, and I could see the frustration building. Grayson skated like a demon was chasing him, at least for the first few hours. Now, the mere force of gravity was dragging him down. Dorian and Caleb looked frayed at the edges. Zack and Asher’s edges had worn off completely.

“Again!” Mercer shouted.

Only Ares had weathered the storm without issue or complaint — sometimes even pushing the rest of the team harder than the coach himself. He was taking this seriously. He was hungry for a win.

Truth be told, so was I.

So far I’d kept my mouth shut, and my comments to myself. But it got to the point where I couldn’t watch this any longer.

“Coach…”

“Alright, BREAK!”

Mercer turned his attention from the ice, as the guys peeled off. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight.

“You got ideas, analyst?”

He called me that about half the time. I was ‘Maxwell’ for the other half.

Either way, I nodded quickly.

“Good,” he grunted. “Talk to them. I need some air.”

Mercer stormed out the metal side door, and into the cold. As it swung closed behind him, I noticed a man in a dark suit on the upper walkway, standing as still as the boards themselves. He had his arms folded, watching. Not the practice, not the drills.

Us.

He didn’t move when I looked at him. He didn’t acknowledge me at all.

He just… watched.

Shaking off my unease, I motioned Grayson over. He skated directly to me, helmet under his arm. Like everyone else he was covered in melted ice and sweat, his flowing hair plastered against his too-handsome face.

“You’re holding the puck too long,” I told him. “Again.”

He replied by tilting his head back and squirting his water bottle directly into his open mouth. It splashed everywhere, including all over me. Just as he meant it to.

“The Phantoms are afraid of you,” I went on, without acknowledgment. “That’s why they cheat you forward. They’ve done it the past two games.”