Page 140 of The Obvious Check
“I thought you were just a kicker. Do you even need to do the drills?”
He shakes his head. “Just a kicker. Is that how you speak to your goalie?” My thoughts immediately go to Dash and how I’m partly doing this to protect him. “We’re all on the same team. What one of us does we all do.”
He’s right. I’m being an ass.
“Fine,” I grumble in annoyance over the predicament I’ve got myself in.
Stick a USB in Luke’s system. Like that’s going to be easy.
I watch Matty walk away before snatching the USB off the table and flipping it over in my hand. I study the little black piece ofplastic with a football sprayed onto the side. It’s hard to believe that this little piece of metal is the key to finally getting back at Luke. I guess the question now is, how the fuck am I going to get it into his system?
I can’t just waltz into his territory myself and tell him Savannah is off the table. I saw how Cal and Mark were looking at her before they knew I was there. She’s not going anywhere near that cesspit again. Not if I have anything to do with it.
Matty was right. I need someone on the inside. Someone who hates Luke as much as I do, but isn’t stupid enough to get themselves killed in the process. Someone desperate enough to take the risk, and angry enough to see it through.
The list of candidates is shorter than my patience.
Actually, scratch that. There is no list.
The only way to create one is to go back there and observe the newer people on Luke’s payroll… and the only way I’m going to be allowed back in there is if I go through with that fight.
Fuck.
If I don’t get killed in the fight, Savannah and Dash will do the work themselves. They don’t want me there. I don’t want to be there, but what choice do I have? If I can get this fucking USB in Luke’s ratty ass computer, I don’t just freemyfamily, I free everyone.
Well, shit. When did I become so altruistic? I guess desperate times call for fucking desperate measures.
I slide off the picnic table, pocketing the USB as I try to think of another way out of this. A way that doesn’t involve breaking a promise to my new wife, but whatever shitstorm I’m about to unleash will have to wait. Right now, I've got a game to focus on, and maybe, if I'm lucky, sixty minutes of mindless violence will help me figure out how to destroy Luke without destroying myself in the process.
Probably not.
But a man can dream.
The second my skates hit the ice, everything else disappears. The noise. The crowd. The weight in my chest. It’s all gone, except for two things: winning this game, and her.
My wife is pressed up against the glass wearing our name on her back, and seeing her there ignites something in me.She’swhy I can’t afford to lose. Not this game. Not against Luke. Never again. There’s no backup plan when failure means Luke getting any part of her.
I fall in line with the boys, circling the boards in our usual pre-game loop. The scrape of our blades usually locks me in, but tonight, everything feels off.
Dash coasts up beside me, hulking and silent, his eyes burn behind the cage of his helmet. “Focus,” he growls.
His annoyance isn’t his usual goalie-mode bullshit. He’s furious with me, and I can’t blame him.
I told him. He’s the only person who knows what I’m planning and he fucking hated it. So much so, he spent half an hour tearing me a new one over how monumentally stupid I’m being.
You’re a fucking idiot.You could lose everything, Cade. Your degree, your contract, your future. Hell, Luke’s practically salivating for the chance to destroy you and you’re just going to willingly walk in there and self-implode. I know you’re a reckless motherfucker, but this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you do. Who the fuck knows what he’s got waiting for you out there.
His words echo in my head as he skates toward the goal, his shoulders rigid with disapproval. He’s right. Of course he is. My giant goalie friend has never been wrong in his entire life. Except for when he betrayed me and dated my sister, of course. But Ican’t be too angry about it because now it gives me leverage. He has to help me with this. He might not want to, but he does.
The crowd roars as we take our positions, and I use that energy to fuel the aggression already burning in my veins. I shoulder-check a couple of Southern Collegiate players as I move. Not hard enough to draw attention, but enough to let them know I’m not here to play nice.
SoCol. Our biggest rivals and one of the dirtiest teams in all of college sports, have built their reputation on cheap shots and referee payoffs, clawing their way to championships through every underhanded trick in the book.
Perfect. Tonight I need an outlet for all this rage, and they're serving themselves up on a silver platter.
When the whistle blows and the ref drops the puck, Scotty launches himself forward, his stick crashing against SoCo’s center as they battle for control. When the puck breaks free, I cut in fast, my stick snagging it before the other team can react. I twist my body, shifting direction as I scan the ice.
Erik is open on the right side, so I pass it and he catches it cleanly, dodging an incoming defenseman before slamming a hard shot toward the net. Their goalie barely gets a piece of it as the puck bounces off the pads and ends up loose in the crease.
