“What the hell are you guys doing?”
The three men around me—who each, in their own right, could star in a movie about superhuman strength—jump at the sound of the voice that rings down the hallway.
Luca stands there, already suited up and in his skates, scowling at us. The baby blue of his jersey makes his tanned skin pop, and even the annoyed expression on his face does nothing to hide the dimples on his cheeks, or the handsome curve of his brow.
Which is only an observation. Not a compliment.
Just for something to do with my hands, I stuff my tablet back into my bag, and Luca tracks the movement like I’ve just hidden a bag of drugs in my pants.
“Dude,” Grayson says, glancing between me and Luca. “Wren is like a freaking spy, man. She has all this insider information on the—”
“Warm-ups started five minutes ago,” Luca snaps, his voice cold. Grayson immediately quiets. Callum shoots him a commiserating look, and the three of them start to walk away. I stand completely still, my eyes locked on Luca’s until we’re the only two left in the hallway.
“Don’t mess with my players before the game,” he says, gaze narrowed on me. “The last thing we need is for you to get in their heads and throw them off.”
I narrow my eyes right back, thinking about the slight weakness I’d noticed in his left ankle during the last practice. And what I told Maverick about Caden and what he might do tonight.
“Protect your left side, McKenzie,” I return, forcing myself to square my face and walk past him, patting him casually on the shoulder as I do.
Sparks shoot up my hand and into my arm, electric. The adrenaline of arguing with him, going toe-to-toe with someone as headstrong as I am. The drive to prove to him that I can take this team to the Stanley Cup, and I can make sure they all get to skate around holding that stupid thing over their heads.
Luca
“You absolutely must rest for at least a few days,” the trainer says, looking up at me with a stern expression, her hands light on my left ankle. “A few days will give it some time to heal, and you can probably play in the next game. But I know how you are, McKenzie. If you play on this, it’s only going to get worse.”
The room smells like rubbing alcohol and plastic gloves. Above us, bright white lights illuminate my ankle, which is slightly bruised and swollen, propped on a pillow. I feel like a kid stuck in the nurse’s office at school, sitting on this padded bench with my legs hanging, and aching pain lingering.
“And itwouldhave been a lot worse,” Sloane interjects, “if Maverick hadn’t knocked that guy out of this century before he could fully collide with you.”
My sister is shaking her head, half her attention on her phone as she leans on the wall across the room. Every time I look at her, it still shocks me to see the little belly she has pushing against her shirt. She’d turned down the trainer’s offer to sit, saying it would just be hard to get up again. Right now, she’s probably re-watching the clip where Caden Haworth tried to blindside me while I was shooting. A flash of red heading toward me, only to get wiped out by Maverick.
I owe Maverick, there’s no doubt about that.
But there’s also no doubt in my mind that something strange was going on last night.
Sloane and the trainer continue chatting while my ankle is wrapped. Then, when the trainer disappears to find me a set of crutches, I turn to Sloan, unable to stop myself.
“It wouldn’t have happened at all if Beaumont wasn’t feeding information about us to the other teams,” I say.
Sloane tips her head back dramatically and groans, letting her phone drop. “Really, Luca? Again? How many times are we going to go over this—she even warned you before the game to watch your left side—”
“Yeah, and isn’t that a real fucking coincidence that she happened to knowexactlywhich cheap shot the other team was going to take on me?”
“Well, she’s a—”
“—donotsay she’s a genius, or I swear to god—”
“—professionalstrategist,” Sloane says, rolling her eyes at me dramatically. “This is what she does, Luca. It’s herjob. Why we hired her. And don’t act like you’ve never known when a guy was injured before and exploited it.”
I bite my tongue, realizing she’s not going to listen to me about this. For some reason, I’m the only one who can see right through Wren—even Sloane, who is normally very perceptive, seems to think she’s this perfectly benevolent, innocent woman.
“Hey,” a voice from the door greets. Sloane and I turn at the same time to find Callum standing there, his eyes flicking back and forth between us. “What’s the damage?”
“Trainer just left to get crutches,” Sloane says, at the same time as I say, “I’ll be playing in the next game, don’t worry.”
Cal laughs “Alright. Sloane, Coach wanted to talk to you about something.”
Sloane’s eyebrows shoot up, but she makes for the door, darting me a look before she goes. “You need to be nice to Wren, Luca.She’s already doing a lot for the team, and Maverick told me she’s the reason he knew to be extra vigilant. You would be out for a lot more games if it weren’t for her warning.”
