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“You ate snow.” Withers grinned at me and tugged his cap down lower on his blond hair.
Some of the guys chuckled, and it was clear they thought it was all in good fun, but I’d never been so embarrassed in my life. I’d known Wystan was quick because we’d practiced together, but this was fucking atrocious. My head spun with all the things I could do to train harder, gain more muscle, literally fucking anything to put this shithead in his place.
“Let’s do this. Vero, will you hand these out for me?” Coach Hill asked, passing over a stack of papers to him with a big grin. This was always one of his favorite days of the year.
A few other parents shuffled closer to stand on the other side of the boards and watch. Dad and Elissa—Wystan’s mom—smiled at each other while she looped her arm around his elbow. I wanted to fucking gag looking at them. Sweat rolled down my back as Miloševic—a blond, six-foot-four hulk who moved across the ice like a feather—handed me a piece of paper with a pencil.
Team Captain. Vote for one.
Wystan.
Atlas.
Quincy.
I swore under my breath. I knew why they’d added Quincy Lavigne to the ballot for team captain. This was his fourth year, and next to me he had the most skills. I glanced over at him. He was stoic with his gray eyes barely open while he stood staring down at the paper in his hand. He hadn’t bothered to even grab his hockey stick while me and Wystan were having our pissing contest. Quincy nodded at me, and my heart thudded faster. Maybe he’d wanted to make sure I got the votes to be captain and that was why he’d sat out. I grinned at him and circled my own name, not giving a shit about sportsmanship.
I deserved to be Captain Frosteson.
I’d worked for years with the goal in mind, and I could almost taste it.
Yeah, Wystan was new and a showboat, but my team was loyal.
I winked at Wystan when he glanced at me, and it was beautiful to see a scowl twist his lips downward. I skated over and dropped my paper into the shoebox Coach Hill held, and his assistant, a scrawny redheaded boy named Rain, beamed as if it was his one true dream to take my pencil from me. I felt a little better about life. Blowing out a long breath, I waved at Dad, and I was irritated when Elissa was the one to notice and flutter her fingers, being sweet.
Fuck her asshole son. I didn’t act like a jerk toward her, though. I might hate her kid, but she’d been decent. A fuck of a lot better than my mom ever had been.
Withers took the box and started tallying votes. Everyone stared at him. The chatter died down. I couldn’t fucking breathe and started to feel faint until Boss slapped me on the back, smiling.
“You’re going to be a good captain,” he said with a sweet, encouraging smile. He was a great friend, and I owed him a round of beers after putting up with my cranky ass for the last week.
Nodding, I winked at him, then focused on Withers.
The minutes dragged, and I wanted to groan when Withers started counting the ballots for the second time with a small frown stuck on his face. He glanced up at me, eyes wide and stricken.
My stomach dropped. “No,” I murmured.
“Wystan,” Withers said, then cleared his throat and said it louder.
There was an eruption of chaotic cheering and noise, and then people started to swarm Wystan.
“This is going to be a hell of a season,” Dad said in his booming, cheerful voice.
Elissa giggled and nodded, and the other parents standing nearby turned to her with smiles. I slammed my hockey stick on the ice and left it there while my heart went wild and my vision grayed out for a moment. I skated away and headed toward the locker room without looking back. I had to get the fuck out of here. If I saw Wystan right now, I would rip his face off.
And fuck, he would be moving into our house with his mom. “I can’t fucking think about that right now,” I growled under my breath.
In the locker room, my hands shook because I was so fucking pissed as I got my gear off. I was gross because we’d been going hard out there, even though it wasn’t a real practice, and I grabbed my soap and a washcloth out of my locker while barely seeing anything in front of me, slipped on my shower flip-flops, and then stormed into the open showers. The white tiles on the floor, walls, and ceiling were as vibrant and sparkling as they would be all year and the scent of bleach hung faintly in the air. I stomped to a silver faucet in the middle of the wall and slapped down the handle. The shower water steamed, and I stepped under the scalding spray.
Washing off did nothing to calm me down, and if anything, I was more pissed off when I was finished. I’d worked hard last season. I’d already talked to Coach Hill about what we should do to practice this year and get better. I had strategies I’d mapped out over the summer.
And Wystan was my age. Twenty-two. Too old for the draft. He’d already played somewhere else and had moved here because NGU offered him a full ride, including a stipend—or so said the rumors. Technically they weren’t paying him to play hockey, but I wasn’t sure how close to the edge of legal that deal was.
He was going to look damned fine to pro teams if he played well this year.
It all amounted to one thing: I was fucked. I would never be captain because he had no reason to leave.
The rest of the guys came into the locker room, talking too loudly and much too happily, and after a few minutes I glanced up and the breath was knocked out of me. Wystan, Boss, and Withers all walked into the shower area naked—which was nothing new, though I usually tried not to get caught in a room full of the guys.
