Pete shoved his fists against me, the fear in his eyes palpable. “Fuck,” he wheezed just as I squeezed his throat. He had no understanding I could snap his neck without exerting myself.
“Saint. Come on, man. He was just jiving you,” Eric pushed.
“Yeah? He’s a lousy comedian.” I released my hold, the man dropping like a rock.
When I turned away, Pete sputtered and coughed.
“You’re a crazy motherfucker. They should toss you off the team.” Pete recovered quickly, grabbing his jacket and heading to the door.
Eric remained, taking several deep breaths.
I had no idea what to say. Sure, I was known as a hothead, but I rarely lost my temper with a teammate. Unless they did something stupid. What Pete said qualified. I returned to my open locker, jerking off my shirt.
“What’s going on with you?” Eric asked quietly.
Obviously so he wouldn’t piss me off too. “Nothing. Except for the fact everyone assumes I’m some goddamn mythical killer. My career is on the line because I tried to do something good.”
He sighed and out of the corner of my eye, I watched him leaning against the lockers, rubbing his jaw. “So there’s no truth to the shit in the news?”
Snorting, I looked at him, throwing out my arms. “Do I look like some werewolf?”
He laughed and so did I, even though the crackle of electricity was still brimming just below the surface. “Well, no, but you do look like an asshole. Just like normal.”
I tossed my shirt at him, which he caught. For the most part, I could be myself around Eric. The dude was as aggressive as I was, but only on the ice. But he’d earned his name The Enforcer. Like we all had. The monikers fit each of us perfectly. For the most part, we’d worked well together as a team. Like a well-oiled machine. The last thing we needed was for some yokel to insinuate crap right before the last game before the playoffs. We couldn’t afford to lose the game.
“You know what? Maybe this is some shit made up by the Denver Devils.”
His thought brought a slight smile to my face, but I hid it from him. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it. They’re our number one rivals. They’d stop at nothing to discredit us so they could upend our trip to the finals. Plus, Rocco The Rock hates your guts.”
I shrugged, catching my shirt from him after he tossed it back. With a sly grin on my face, I nodded. “Good thinking. I wonder if the coach has thought about it. Maybe you could say something to him.”
“Maybe I will. I wouldn’t put anything past those fuckers.”
His idea wasn’t a bad one even if it wasn’t true. The guys on the Devils team hated us and the feeling was mutual. At least if Eric mentioned a plausible possibility and it didn’t come from me, maybe the heat would pass.
For now.
Hopefully, I could get some kind of control in the meantime.
“Naw. You’re right. A lot of trouble to discredit us, though.”
Eric laughed. “They want revenge, buddy. Since we creamed them the last time, they want some payback. I’ll mention it to the coach. You cool your shit and get ready for the next game, especially since we’re hosting the Devils on our home court. Gonna be a tough one and we gotta win.”
“Yeah, I will.” I watched him walk out and grabbed the lucky shirt I practiced in. As soon as I grabbed my stick, I noticed the sponsorship logo. Another reminder I couldn’t lose my cool or feed my beast. Not right now. What I would do is find out why I was having a difficult time keeping my emotions in check.
There was only one man who could do that.
My father.
Not only the man I most respected, but the leader of the pack.
Yeah, this sucked.
There wasn’t a single aspect about the situation I could find remotely acceptable.
“The coach hates me. The team hates me. Even the social media manager quit, citing how much she loathed my existence.”
