“Don’t say that.” I separated one puck from the pile and readied my shot at the net.
“Why not? It’s true.” He picked up the empty puck bag.
“Dad said you can’t help.”
“He said I couldn’t shoot for you.” He shrugged off his coat, then shoved my arms through the sleeves. “He didn’t say I couldn’t help. Start shooting. I’ll bag the pucks once they’re in the net.”
I sucked in a lungful of bitterly cold air and then started shooting.
The whistle blew, dragging me from the memory, and I flicked my wrist, battling for the faceoff…and lost it.
What the fuck? I had one of the best faceoff ratios in the league.
And now the puck was headed into our zone.
I took off after Chicago’s forward, my feet cutting up the ice as I charged after him, deftly sweeping the puck off his stick and cutting back out of our zone. My heart pounded as I passed it to McKittrick, who was flying up the boards.
He caught the pass and showboated his way around one of their defenders.
I would have scoffed, but hell, it worked. The kid had some of the best puck-handling skills I’d seen, especially for a rookie, and one day getting all fancy might bite him in the ass, but not today.
He skated it up, and once he’d taken the puck over the blue line, I crossed into the zone, wide-open. McKittrick faked out the other defenseman and hurled the puck in my direction.
It hit my stick with a satisfying smack, and I faced down the goalie.
Three strides and I shot, aiming for just above his shoulder, stickside, where he always left a neat little hole.
It hit the rail.
I’d…missed.
I blinked, confusion causing me to miss the obvious rebound that was quickly scooped up by the defender. What the fuck had just happened? It wasn’t like I didn’t miss shots occasionally, but never one that clear-cut.
“What the hell was that?” Cannon asked during the shift change, flying off the bench before I could answer.
“Shake it off, Zolotov.” Coach ordered.
But I didn’t.
Every single shot I took for the rest of the game hit the post or the rail, the sound dinging in my ears like an alarm bell.
Something was wrong with me.
We won, three to one, but it wasn’t because of anything I’d done. Somehow I’d gone from being the leading point scorer on the Reapers to being…a liability.
“Let it go,” Sterling ordered as we marched toward the locker room after the game. “You had a bad game. Shit happens.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t.” Shit like this never happened.
Dad appeared at the juncture of the hallways, just like he had at practice, and the set of his jaw told me that I would have worn his handprints if I was ten years younger.
But I wasn’t.
So why the fuck did my stomach twist up in knots?
“Great game, wasn’t it?” Coach said to Dad, appearing between us like he had some magical radar for when bullshit was about to go down.
Dad’s eyes narrowed on me and Sterling moved left, blocking out the sight of our father with his massive goalie pads.
The logical side of me thanked him for the consideration, but the confused-as-fuck, irrational portion of me wanted to shove Sterling out of the way so Dad didn’t think I was scared of him. Besides, if we were going to get all family technical, I was the bigger brother here. Maybe it was only by three months, but still.
David would have done the same, not that Sterling had even met our older brother. Funny how their mannerisms were so alike…except Sterling could still skate.
“I need to speak to my son,” Dad growled.
“Well, neither of your sons want to talk to you.” Sterling flipped him the middle finger and we continued down the hallway.
“I’m sure he’ll catch up with you at some point,” Coach said from behind us.
“I don’t need you to run interference with Dad,” I snapped at Sterling. “I can fucking handle him.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” He held open the locker room door like I wasn’t being a total, insufferable asshole. “I just think you shouldn’t always have to.”
I grunted and headed in, barely restraining myself from throwing my gear into my locker with the force of all the rage I felt.
“Never let your temper rule you. You didn’t pay for that gear.” My mother’s voice popped into my head.
“I’d rather you break your stick in a fit of anger than be passionless about your performance,” Dad’s motto countered.
I followed Mom’s advice, since when she did voice an opinion about my performance—which wasn’t often—it was usually to steer me in the opposite direction of my father’s mannerisms.
“Dude. You were so off tonight,” McKittrick said from down the bench with a shit-eating grin.
I shot him a glare. And this was the fuck that Mila thought Evie should live with? Not that he was a bad guy. He was just an overgrown frat boy who fucked any girl with two legs and a heartbeat. He would have charmed the panties right off Evie—sweet, smart, completely naive Evie. He would have added her notch to his bedpost and moved on the next morning, leaving her wondering what she’d done wrong. A surge of red-hot…something…raced down my spine.