I thrash for a second, then go still. I let him pull me clear and then right myself. I’ve never seen him on the ice before. Not during a game—not even when the fights break out. He doesn’t like to get his suit ruffled.
“Get to the bench,” he orders.
I collect my forgotten stick and take a seat. My cheek throbs. Somewhere along the way, I lost my helmet, too. Knox arrives, dropping down beside me, and hands me my helmet. I take it and shake my head.
“Don’t start,” I grumble.
“The asswipe tripped you, and the refs did nothing.” Knox shrugs. “The whole team deserved the beatdown.”
I glance at him. His eyebrow is split open, blood dripping down his temple.
Everyone has cleared off the ice except the refs and the two coaches. There seems to be some arguing going on.
“Here,” one of the assistant coaches says, coming down the line behind us. He hands Knox and me a pack of gauze.
I avert my eyes.
Well, I fucking got my hands bloody. Like Violet wanted.
Violet… more like Violent. Who knew under such an angelic face lived a monster as sadistic as me?
A knuckle on my left hand is hot to the touch. My skin is split open on both hands, but that one feels the worst.
Broken, maybe.
Fucking hell.
The assistant coach shuffles back down behind us and moves Knox over. He takes my hands and presses on my knuckles. When I hiss, he tuts. I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut, because now he’s glaring at me like I’m never going to play again. Dramatic asshole.
I’m ready to pick a fight with anyone and everyone.
“It’s fine,” I grit out.
My ring finger is tingling.
The assistant coach, fresh out of college himself, scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
He wraps my hand in gauze, interweaving around my fingers to keep them immobile. He gestures to the gauze in my lap. “Use that to take care of your other hand.”
He moves away. Knox and I exchange a glance. I don’t know what to fucking say—the guy tripped me. What resulted should be on the Knights, not us. I lean forward to look down the line. A few seem in bad shape—Miles has blood on his jersey, and his smile is bloody. He’s got his helmet off, too, sitting there right as rain—and hungry for more blood.
Good.
We’re down by a goal. We’ll need the bloodthirstiness to keep going, to push harder. We’re only two minutes into the third period.
Coach Roake, the Knights’ coach, and the referees finally break their little huddle. Roake strides across the ice in his fucking dress shoes like it’s concrete, stepping up out of the rink. He’s pissed.
“Devereux,” Coach says. His voice carries down to us. “Penalty box. Five minutes. But after that, you’re out.”
I stand. “Coach,” I protest. “Out?”
He points at me. “A fucking five-minute power play because you couldn’t keep your shit together. Do you think your teammates want to pick up your slack?”
Fucking hell.
I hop over the wall and skate to the penalty box. It kills me when the rest of the starters take their positions. At least the defense is strong. Miles flashes me a grin as he goes by. The suited guy sitting next to me, to make sure I actually stay in for the allotted time and no one else replaces me on the ice, ignores me.
I take a seat on the short bench and tap my stick against the mat. Even when I get out of here, I’m apparently replaced.