Page 173 of Pucking Them
“D’Angelo has hired Garcia,” she whispered. “He’s investigatingeveryone.”
My gaze darts across the men on the bench, directors, coaches, and staff.
Is Garcia also looking into the players?
It would break D’Angelo if the person behind the attack was one of the team.
Robyn reaches up to smooth her finger over my brow. “Why are you frowning? There’s still…”
“Two minutes left,” I automatically reply.
I glance down at her, before back at my brother.
Shay is skating hard, trying to shake a rival defenseman who is targeting him.
I can’t hold it in any longer.
My neck prickles with the awareness of the cameras.
I raise a hand to rest it over my neck just for a moment, and Robyn catches the movement.
Robyn’s expression gentles with understanding, clutching my hand tighter. “Your brother was excited. You know how much you had to calm me down before I asked him. I was like a caffeinated bunny, rehearsing the lines to the air as if to an imaginary friend. In the end, he was braver than me, and I didn’t manage to say any of those lines. I couldn’t have been more nervous than if I’d been proposing to him. I’m so fucking happy that he said yes, you know? I’m honored. I promise that he’s safe with me. You can trust me.”
“I do.”
I don’t understand my brother’s need to be owned. I hate it. But I respect his right to choose.
I’m just worried that I don’t trust heischoosing.
I don’t trust his understanding of choice or of white lies.
“Leave him alone.” Robyn’s gaze snaps back to the game. “Wilder, you fucking bully.”
Wilder is relentlessly pressing D’Angelo again.
Except, something is different.
D’Angelo is in control.
Wilder doesn’t know that he is being played.
One thing about being coached by my boss in power dynamics is that I can sense the shift in D’Angelo, when he is about to turn the tables.
Nothing tastes sweeter, even Cody’s special blackberry cake, than revenge.
And D’Angelo is about to take a bite…out of Wilder’s arse.
“Watch,” I simply say.
Robyn flinches, as Wilder once more crushes D’Angelo into the glass close to us by a hard shoulder. The impact echoes through the arena. The crowds gasp.
“Fifteen.” My eyes become steely.
What if I plucked out Wilder’s beard one strand at a time?
Wouldn’t that be more painful? Although, not as satisfying as watching the beautiful flames dance.
He’d still scream.
