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He drains the last of his beer, unbothered. "Aw, don't be like that. I was doing you a favor—you clearly needed to loosen up."
"The only thing I need is for you to get the hell out of my life."
We're toe to toe now, fists clenched. He tilts his chin up defiantly. "Make me."
For a suspended, dangerous moment we teeter on the edge of violence. Every suppressed frustration and indignity fuels the fire raging inside me, demanding release. My hands tremble with the effort of holding back, lungs burning with each furious breath.
Just as I think we might actually come to blows, London steps back, hands raised.
"Chill man, it was just a joke," he says, tone infuriatingly casual. "I'm heading to bed."
He brushes past me, and I have to clench my jaw against a thousand seething retorts. His bedroom door slams shut, rattling the walls. I stand rigid until I hear the unmistakable sounds of his music turning on.
In his wake, I survey the debris of beer cans, abandoned controllers, and piles of disgusting smelly hockey gear. A tornado of chaos he's entitled enough to think I should just clean up.
Something dangerous uncurls inside me, the final tatter of restraint dissolving. If London wants escalation, he's got it. I'm taking the damn gloves off. No more civility or benefit of the doubt. He wants to play dirty? I'll show him just how deep my grudges run.
This means war.
5
LONDON
The blastof the coach's whistle cuts through the tense air of the gym as we line up for drills. I bend to tighten my laces, hyperaware of the looming presence just down the line. Even with my head down, I can feel Riot's icy glare aimed squarely at me.
The divide in the team is palpable. Veterans clustered on one side, sizing up us new transfers scattered across from them. And at their helm, number twenty-nine’s broad shoulders angled in challenge.
Fine by me. I've got nothing left to prove to these entitled pricks. Only thing that matters now is showing the coach I deserve my spot at Hollowgate.
"Line it up!" Deck calls, stopping beside the pucks.
I shoulder my way to the front, ignoring the dissent rippling through the vets. Riot's eyes bore into me, cold and calculating, but I don't flinch. Stare down the biggest wolf long enough and he'll back down. That's the code I've lived by since I was too young to remember when I learned it.
Deck blows the whistle, and I explode forward, stick flashing as I corral the puck. In my periphery, I catch a blur streaking up on my tail. Speak of the devil. I angle left, but Kensington matches me, looming at my shoulder now.
"Not so fast, Hotshot," he growls.
I bare my teeth in a savage grin. "Scared you can't keep up?"
With a twist and flick of my wrist, the puck sails through the cones and into the net. I turn and spread my arms, soaking up the whoops from the newbies behind me.
Riot's eyes simmer, jaw clenched. "Cute trick. Let's see how you handle the next level."
We both know he means him. Fine by me—I'm just getting warmed up.
The next round I let Kensington get the puck first, content to track him from behind. He handles the cones smoothly but is too safe, like he's got something to prove. Right before the goal, I swing wide and clip the puck away, sending it through the targets quick as lightning.
Riot rounds on me, shoulders squared. "You call that teamwork?"
"Nah, I call it competitiveness. You afraid of a little heat, Kensington?"
"The only thing I'll be afraid of is how hard you'll hit those boards when I wipe 'em with you."
Tension thickens the air between us, an unspoken challenge crackling like lightning.
The coach pairs us up for passing drills next. As Riot and I face off, Deck shoots us a warning look. I widen my stance and flex my fingers, adrenaline spiking.
Riot passes first, whip-fast and brutal. But I stop it clean, send it whistling right back harder. Again, again—each blistering pass amps up the energy, until it's less practice and more battle.
